


Hearts for Any Fate

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, M/M, Old West, Wild West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:37:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone’s eyes turn toward the young man being held by the scruff of his neck. He’s easily as tall as the sheriff, but much thinner in build. When he raises his head up, John’s heart catches at the sight of pale eyes reflecting the moonlight back to them. He very carefully controls his breathing but he can tell, even from this distance, that this newcomer noted the reaction.</p><p>Jack takes in the raggedy young man’s clothes, his unkempt hair, pale eyes and high cheekbones. He thinks to himself "halfbreed" but out loud he calls Mike to come forward. Mike steps up and looks at the pitiful creature in front of them. He recognizes a boy he hasn’t seen in near ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn 1869

**Author's Note:**

> Truly, I don't know what's wrong with me. Now I've started I can't seem to stop! I have fallen hard and fast for this fandom and I am a serious connoisseur of AUs. Any suggestions for a title would be admirable! Please note: this is a work of fiction. While I try hard to keep all of my facts straight, there may be some mistakes, they are all my own.---ETA: Finally, we have a title! thank you to the wondrous and wonderful PenelopeWaits for her Longfellow suggestion! 
> 
> " In the world's broad field of battle,  
> In the bivouac of Life,  
> Be not like dumb, driven cattle !  
> Be a hero in the strife ! "  
> "Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !  
> Let the dead Past bury its dead !  
> Act,— act in the living Present !  
> Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
> 
> Lives of great men all remind us  
> We can make our lives sublime,  
> And, departing, leave behind us  
> Footprints on the sands of time ; "
> 
> " Let us, then, be up and doing,  
> With a heart for any fate ;  
> Still achieving, still pursuing..."  
> -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, (snippets from) A Psalm for Life

**  
Chapter 1: Autumn 1869**

**J** essie Watson shifts her weight in the seat of her old roping saddle. She stands up in the stirrups slightly, easing her knees and ankles from the strain of waiting for four hours at the top of this hill. She stares down at the spread below. There are several tree-branch corrals where some rather pathetic-looking cattle mill around on the brown and yellow dying grass. Some of them are lying down, calmly digesting their breakfast of tough hay from a few hours ago. The trees that surround them are already changing color, sap sinking to the roots, readying themselves for winter. It’s a pleasantly cool day, with just enough wind to kick up dust. There seems to be a layer of it everywhere she looks.

Jessie takes another deep breath and rolls her neck to loosen her shoulders that seem so tight in her light-blue button-down. She rests her hands on the horn of her saddle, holds the reins in both hands, plays with Jeb’s mane, fiddles with the fringe on her one nice shirt, and otherwise just fidgets. She is growing tired of waiting. She huffs impatiently, seriously considering going back down to the house and changing into something less…dressy, well for her, anyway.

She drops both reins on Jeb’s neck and leans backward so that her back is against the cantle with her denim-clad legs more or less stretched out in front of herself. Jeb shifts legs, resting his right hind leg on the toe of his hoof. His ears move back and forth lazily. He would actually be pretty content if he had a feed bag or some hay to munch on, thinks Jessie. She closes her eyes and rests, stretching her arms and putting her hands beneath her head. Jeb is a comfortable enough couch underneath her, slightly swaying with each breath he takes.

Finally, after another twenty minutes, regular sounds of horses’ shod hooves on the hard-packed dirt reach her ears. _Clip-clop, clip-clop_. She sits up slowly, at first leaning on one elbow to reorient herself. She reaches up with her hands and rubs her eyes. She gently takes up the reins and turns Jeb’s head towards the trail to watch for the riders. She is back to waiting now. Jessie knows that her face is probably dirty and dusty from all this time, so she makes a little effort to straighten herself up before they get any nearer. She pulls off her wide-brimmed hat and runs one hand through her brown hair. Jessie frowns and shoves the white hat back on her head. No chance. It’s not like he’s going to notice her anyway.

The three riders are starting to come into view as they round a corner and head towards her. They are kicking up enough dust that it’s all she can do to make out three figures on horseback with a pack mule trailing behind.

Jessie stands up in her stirrups, waving at them; her brown boot toes balanced on the wooden footrests behind the tapaderos expertly. As they come closer to her, the three men slow their horses from a lope to a walk almost simultaneously. The oldest man riding in front smiles broadly at her. She takes in his dusty button-down shirt and leather vest; the graying hair she can just see under his hat, and his neat grey mustache. He nudges his bay gelding up next to Jeb and reaches out to wrap a strong brown arm around her shoulders. She smiles back. “Hi Daddy.”

“It’s so good to see you, girl.” Jack Watson’s voice is gravelly from the dust of the road. He grips the brim of his tan hat and nods at his daughter. It’s been a long summer and he is looking forward to being home, at least for a while.

Jessie turns quickly to see who he’s brought back with him for the winter. She smiles at her brother, John, mounted on his sturdy black pinto. He grins back at her with a “Hi Sis.” Like his father, he also grips the brim of his hat and nods towards his younger sibling.

“This is Mike Stamford.” John holds a gloved hand out towards his companion and Mike touches his hat and nods. Jessie barely contains her girlish glee. Finally, she gets to meet this stranger that she’s heard—very little actually—about from her father and brother.

“Hello, Mike.” Jessie nudges Jeb and leads them down the hill. She is thinking to herself that this Mike character is a nice-looking man with his open smile and crinkly blue eyes. Maybe he will do more than just _help out_ around the ranch this winter. When Jessie realizes she is blushing, she is glad that they are all behind her. With a wave of happiness, she taps Jeb’s sides with her heels, sits back in the saddle and proceeds to gallop down the hill with the three men following close behind her.

Jessie looks back at the guys and grins as her hat is whipped off of her head. Jeb gives an exasperated little buck and she turns her attention back to him, lightly smacking his shoulder with the end of one rein. It _has_ been a long boring day; the poor horse has been standing for almost five hours. She lets him slow down to a lope which he quickly turns into a plow-horse walk, but its okay, they are home now and things can get back to a normal rhythm.

They all dismount at the tie bar in front of the barn. John and Jack slip their saddles off of their mounts and head into the barn together. Mike is a little slower, but he finally gets the cinches loose then flips his stirrups over the back of the saddle. He follows the other two and they all three come out together as Jessie is carrying her own tack into the barn. She has hung Jeb’s bridle on her arm and carries the saddle with her old pad flipped over on top of it. Jessie doesn’t mind the smell of sweaty horse one bit. If she thought they wouldn’t see, she would almost dip her nose towards the woolen pad and take a deep sniff. She closes her eyes for a second and then realizes she’s on a collision course with the new ranch hand.

Jessie just stops dead in her tracks and blushes like a schoolgirl. She’s read and reread the details about Mike in the scant few letters her family has sent home, which makes her feel like she only just knows him already. He smiles and she can’t help it if she notices how it lights up his entire face. He reaches out to take her tack. At first she wants to keep hold of it, but then realizes how rude that seems and acquiesces. Their hands brush lightly as Mike grips the soft leather. His mouth is moving and she knows she should respond, but for some reason she cannot hear anything except for the blood pounding in her own ears.

“Thank you, Mike. See you at the house.” She turns on her heel. Mike stands there for a few seconds after she is gone, a ridiculous smile plastered across his face. John comes up beside him, looks down at the saddle in his arms and then up at his face. He snorts and pounds his buddy on the back with one hand, raising little puffs of dust off of his dark blue shirt as he does so. Yes, this is certainly going to be an _interesting_ winter, no doubt. He pats Mike’s shoulder one more time and moves to unburden the patient chestnut mule.      

~0o0~

Jessie moves easily about the little kitchen, slowly laying out the evening meal. She pulls the beef roast from the oven and sets it in the center of the table. She hasn’t yet taken the time to change her clothes, so she’s still moderately dressed, though her hair is in a bun on the back of her head. She goes back to the stove and hefts the big iron skillet with the cornbread, letting it down next to the roast. Her cornbread never comes out exactly like her mother’s did, but she’s counting on the fact that the men probably haven’t had a hot meal in several days and will probably be hungry enough not to notice that it hasn’t risen quite as it should. Still.

Everything is hot and ready to eat. She fusses a few more minutes, debating between pouring them whiskey or some of the room-temperature tea in the pitcher on the counter. She finally just decides to lay out both the bottle and the pitcher and let them choose for themselves. She can hear the sounds of the men out back cleaning up a little and she is surprisingly touched by their actions, the respect. Though only sixteen, had her mother still been alive, she probably would have married and left the ranch at the least a year ago. Jessie doesn’t give that thought any more attention, however, as the men come in through the door and quickly settle at the table.

For a while, there is only the sound of silverware scraping plates and the occasionally “please pass the…” whatever. Jessie sits and enjoys the sounds of her boys being well-fed. Since they managed to clean their faces, she can finally study Mike. His skin is a shade or two darker than her own and his hair is brown tinged with red. He has the lightest spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. She will never admit it, but at that moment she saw all of her unborn children when he turned his gaze onto her.

Across the table, Jack chuckles deeply in his chest. John is shoveling in roast and potatoes, not really paying too much attention to his sister, but when his father makes that noise he looks up. John’s gaze follows Jack’s and he stares in open wonder at his sister. For once in his life, one of his romantic decisions seems to have turned out to be a good one. He grins and tucks back into his victuals. Too bad it hadn’t been a good match for him. John quickly banishes that thought. Mike is his friend and had proven himself several times over on the ‘trail. He certainly would be more into Jessie than John, and John was perfectly alright with that. He feels that his sister needs a good man to not only protect her, but give her a chance at a better life than anything he or their father could provide at the moment.

The ranch isn’t doing well since the drought had set in early in the season. Over half of the cattle scheduled to go to the stockyard this year would bring in only the bare minimum price. The other half would probably bring in next-to-nothing. They had done well working for other ranchers this spring and summer, but the savings would not last them through the winter. He refuses to give up, though. The idea of moving to the city and working is…not going to happen. He prefers the open air, the range, a horse underneath him and the sun on his face. Doing what he loved alone was thousands of times better than doing something he hated with someone else.

John keeps his head down towards his plate in an attempt to avoid his father noticing the thoughts that he knows would show on his face. His father knew only the barest truths of his last relationship and John felt it was better if it stayed that way. At twenty-one years of age, there were many things that John could have been doing. He felt it was his place, however, to help out his family at the ranch rather than waste his time in a job he hated. The pay, though… Once again, John works hard to close off his expression and rejoin the conversation that is going on around him. He reaches out for the whiskey bottle and pours himself a healthy measure. The brown liquid burns a fiery path down his throat but serves its purpose in numbing his heart—at least for the moment.

Jessie and Mike are sizing each other up across the table. John knows that they are debating about whether they are compatible and wonders which of the two of them is even aware of it. Sure, he had told his friend about his sister, but he had never given Mike any more information than necessary. He was comfortable making the introduction; not his place, however, to give all the details. He knew from experience that there were good and bad things about _everyone_ , so let them figure it out on their own. He was dog tired and so he stood up and said his good nights to everyone and headed to his room. He changed into his nightclothes and was asleep before his blonde head hit the feather pillow.

John is awakened with a start just after midnight. Someone is banging on the front door. He scans the room in the half-light from the moon and grabsthe rifle standing by the bedroom door. He rushes out towards the front room where his father is already taking stock of the situation. The older man peeks behind the white curtains and nods to John. John carefully sets the rifle down at his side where he can swing it back into his arms quickly if necessary.

Jessie comes into the room as Mike rushes in from the back door. As a hired hand, his bunk is out in the almost-never-used bunkhouse. John thinks they need to do something about that situation, but first there’s this one to attend to.

Jack opens the heavy wooden door. His voice is tired but steady when he speaks. “Sheriff Lestrade? Is there something we can help you with?”

The tall, well-built and silver haired sheriff stands in the moonlight. His brown eyes are keen, even at this hour. He scans the members of the household and takes in the new face. He seems to make up his mind about something. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Watson, but this young man here seems to think that he can come sneaking around in the dead of night because his cousin is currently in your employ?”

Everyone’s eyes turn toward the young man being held by the scruff of his neck. He’s easily as tall as the sheriff, but much thinner in build. When he raises his head up, John’s heart catches at the sight of pale eyes reflecting the moonlight back to them. He very carefully controls his breathing but he can tell, even from this distance, that this newcomer noted the reaction.

Jack takes in the raggedy young man’s clothes, his unkempt hair, pale eyes and high cheekbones. He thinks to himself _halfbreed_ but out loud he calls Mike to come forward. Mike steps up and looks at the pitiful creature in front of them. He recognizes a boy he hasn’t seen in near ten years.

“Yes.” He says quietly, his voice carrying on the night breeze. Somewhere beyond them, a cow grunts as she lays down in the dry grass. “He is my cousin, though I haven’t laid an eye on him in near ten years. What are you doing here?” Mike turns his attention toward the ruffian who closes his eyes and does not answer.

Sheriff Lestrade lets go the boy’s neck and he attempts to brush himself off with pale hands. He still does not say a word but simply stares up at the older boy, meeting his eyes for a split second. Mike nods as if an entire conversation just took place.

The Watson family and the sheriff are a bit confused. The sheriff senses that everything is now under control. “Can I leave him here, Jack? There’s no one else down the jail and I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“Yes, Greg, you can leave him here. Poor bastard looks like he needs a hot meal.” At his words, Jessie turns back to the kitchen. Jack and John watch the ruffian as he walks towards them. John reaches over and lights one of the oil lamps next to the door without taking his eyes off of the tall stranger.

Jack moves over to one side of the threshold to allow the young man to step through the doorway. He holds out a hand to him. The newcomer stops and shakes it, his long, thin fingers a contrast against Jack’s thicker, more tan digits. Jack’s hand almost dwarfs the young man’s, but he notes with some comfort that the younger man has a strong grip, though his hands seem to be smooth.

“Have a seat, young man. Jessica will round you up some grub and you can sleep out in the bunkhouse with Mike.”

Mike sits down next to his cousin and puts his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Jessie, who has blanched at her father using her given name, sets a plate of cold roast down in front of the stranger. She offers him a shot of whiskey which he takes carefully and pours down his throat. He gives a cough and then shakes his head, feeling the numbing sensation to his toes.

John sits down in the chair at the opposite end of the table, between the stranger and his sister. Jack comes into the room and then drops himself into the chair opposite Mike.

“Before you tell us your story son, have you got a name?”

The young man seems to gaze _through_ Jack Watson but then answers in a quiet and deep voice. “Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Feral Kinship

Calm, waiting silence fills the room. The name means absolutely nothing to anyone there, except perhaps to Mike. He nods slowly, waiting for his cousin to tell what he’s been up to and why he has suddenly reappeared after all this time. Sherlock busies himself with his plate and finally pushes it away, leaving about half of the portion uneaten. Jessie reaches down to take it when a long, thin hand wraps around her wrist.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says quietly, meeting her eyes with his own. She is surprised at the heat emanating from his grip. In the mostly dim room his eyes are like tiny points of silver. She thanks him, her voice just as quiet, and goes towards the kitchen. She catches her father’s eye on the way out and whispers a good night to him.

Sherlock downs the rest of the whiskey, placing the glass very carefully and precisely on the tabletop. For a moment he just stares down at his hands. Mike reaches out and pats his shoulder, taking note of the sharp feeling of the bone underneath the thin shirt. Sherlock takes a breath and starts talking, all the while looking at his hands.

“My mother was murdered a fortnight ago. _They_ turned me out. Apparently no one wants a _halfbreed_.” The sneer in his voice was obvious to the other three men in the room. Though they could not see his face, his pain was palpable.

“I’m sorry.” Mike says to his cousin. Sherlock finally lifts his head and Mike notes that the younger man’s voice is devoid of expression. Mike lowers his eyes and shakes his head wearily. “It’s been a rough ride for you, cousin. I am sure we can find you somewhere to call home…”

Jack snorts and pushes his chair away from the table. Putting his own prejudices aside, he thinks that this is a young man who needs some help.

“Can you work?” He asks Sherlock.

“Sir?”

“I asked you, can you work? Mend fences, tend livestock, help out around here? Ain’t got much money to be payin’ you, but you are welcome to stay down the bunkhouse with Mike if you can give me a hand around here, at least until spring when it will be safer for travelin’.” Jack sizes up the ruffian, he looks underfed but otherwise seems healthy enough. He has learned in his life that it’s usually best to give someone a chance to make their own way before deciding their choices for them. Well. Mostly.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock continues to look at his hands. Jack nods to himself and stands. He slaps the skinny boy on the shoulders and prepares to turn in for the night—again.

Mike waits until Jack is out of earshot before turning to his cousin and asking him why he is suddenly there after ten years. Sherlock seems to shrink into his own skin. His ratty black hair swings forward and hides his face. Once again, he sighs like it hurts to breathe. John takes note of this and pushes his chair back. At the scraping of the legs against the wooden floor, Sherlock finally looks up and they make eye contact. John hopes Mike doesn’t notice the jolt of electricity that runs through the room.

John steps up next to Sherlock, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of the blonde boy for a second. He reaches out a hand to touch Sherlock’s side and remembers at the last second that it’s professional courtesy to ask first.

“Let me check your ribs.” It’s a question and an order. Sherlock obeys, pushing his chair back with barely a sound. John lays his palm against his chest, noting the thinness of the shirt he's wearing, the sharp edge to his breast bone and the curve of his ribs. “Take a deep breath.” Sherlock takes in a deep breath and John can feel just the slightest movement under his hand. He stands again. “You have a broken rib. I’m going to have to tell him that you can’t do anything too strenuous for the next week or so.”

Sherlock nods. He’s figuring he’s not long for this place anyway. With the general consensus about people _like him_ it won’t take long. It had been hurting long before the sheriff snatched him by the back of his shirt and yanked him off his feet when he was attempting to get into the general store. He was only looking for something to eat and then he would have been on his way.

“I’m not going to ask you how that happened, Sherlock.” Mike’s voice is clear and unwavering. “But I can’t imagine you’ve changed too much since you were a boy. Did the sheriff do that to you?”

“No. Mike, it happened before I got into town.” Sherlock’s face made it very clear that he didn’t really want to have this conversation as he half mumbled his statement.

“Good. He seems like a good man.” Mike considers his cousin carefully. There is something they aren’t being told. He is sure it isn’t too serious, or Sherlock would have been out with it already. He remembers the nine-year old boy that had followed him around the summer that he had visited his relatives on the reservation. Nine-year-old Sherlock had a head of thick, wild, black hair and eyes that flashed green against the backdrop of bright blue skies and brown canyons. He was often dirty and barefoot, but seemed to be well-adjusted and busy, always into everything.

Sherlock’s mother had taken a lot of crap for keeping her son of mixed blood. She had been in love with a man from across the Atlantic, Mike didn’t know if the man had been English, Scottish, Welsh or even Irish, mostly because his aunt didn’t talk about it. Ever. Mike’s Aunt was pure Indian, being related to Mike’s family through her first husband, Solomon Stamford. Solomon had been killed within two years of their marriage and Aunt Rachel “Morning Glory” had moved back to the reservation to be with her family. She’d had an affair with Sherlock’s father, who actually had the audacity to tell her what to name the bastard child before leaving the US altogether in the months before the little boy was born.

True to her word, Rachel had named the light-skinned boy Sherlock Holmes. Mike studies his cousin and remembers a young boy telling stories about one day getting to meet his father. He wonders if Sherlock still felt the same way.

Sherlock watches his cousin in turn. He knows that Mike is thinking about the single summer they had spent in each other’s company. He deeply hopes he would not bring up Sherlock’s family line at this moment. He's too exhausted to talk about it tonight. Of course, if no one _ever_ mentioned it, that would be fine, too.

John breaks the reverie by returning to the room with the whiskey bottle. He sits a glass in front of Mike and then himself. He splashes some of the liquid into each glass, including Sherlock’s.

“Drink up, Sherlock. I don’t have anything else for pain to give you right now, but that will at least help you sleep.” He waits until Sherlock drains his glass and then does the same. From his lap he holds up a towel. “Take off your shirt and let me bind that rib for you.”

To his benefit, Sherlock swiftly complies. He unbuttons his shirt, baring his almost-hairless chest and a number of purple bruises. John shakes his head at the injuries and wraps the towel around the skinny boy efficiently, tucking in the top to hold it in place. “Put your shirt back on and try not to sleep on that side.” Sherlock again makes eye contact with John. John starts to reach out and lay a hand on the back of his "patient's" neck. He stubbornly keeps it tight at his side.

Mike stands and beckons to Sherlock. “Come on, it’s time to turn in. I’ll take you down the bunkhouse.” Sherlock follows him, but not before turning towards John. He does not say a word, but John can feel the gratitude in the air nonetheless; along with something else he refuses to deal with at this moment. John follows them and shuts the front door. He blows out the oil lamp, plunging the house back into darkness. As he stretches out in his bed and relaxes, his body trying to find sleep for the second time that night, he finds that he cannot get those intense green eyes out of his mind.

~0o0~

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

“John! John get up! Go tell Mike and that other guy that I’m serving breakfast up here in the kitchen!” Jessie’s voice only gets more shrill the longer he waits to obey her orders, so John figures that it’s best if he gets out of bed right then. Since she’s already pounding on his bedroom door, a pretty good sign she isn’t going to let him wake up slowly. He opens his eyes and detests the sunlight filtering through the single window for a second. It's weak, so still early then. 

He rolls over and reaches to the floor for his blue jeans from yesterday. They are a little dirty and there should be time to get a bath in today, if the weather will cooperate. He shimmies into his clothes but forgoes the boots. He wanders through the kitchen on the way to the outhouse and mumbles some greeting to his sister. She turns to him and huffs a little, always irritated that her brother is any less a morning person than she is. Jessie is awfully glad to have him home to irritate her, however. 

John slams the door on the outhouse. He steps up onto the porch and reaches up for the triangle hanging off of one of the wooden rafters. He rings it for a good thirty seconds, plenty of time for the other two to get their rear ends in gear this morning. When he reenters the house, Jack has already taken his customary seat at the head of the table and is shoveling eggs into his mouth like he’s not eaten in fifteen years. John heads back to his room and retrieves his boots.

“Morning.” John offers as he takes his own seat. Jessie hands him a cup of strong black coffee. He takes a sip and lets the dark liquid perform its miracle of making his body ready for the day.

Jack grunts his greeting back to his son. He finishes his breakfast before Jessie has given John his own plate. “John, can you and Mike get started on the corrals this morning? Find something for that Sherlock boy to do, as well. I’ve got to go into town.”

“Yes, Dad. Sherlock has at least one broken rib and he is bruised up quite a bit.”

Jack levels his gaze at his son. “You checked him out?”

If only he knew, thought John. He said “Yes. I noticed it when he finally started talking last night. Just a bit of wheeze and I could see him flinch when he took a drink.”

Jack nods at his son. He never asked why John had stopped practicing medicine, he was too happy to have him home for the past year. “Ok. Light duty for a bit then, but he needs to do his share.”

“Yes, sir.” John turns towards his own breakfast. He hears Jack leave and then two sets of footsteps enter the house. Mike and Sherlock take the chairs on either side of John. Jessie is as quick with their meals as she was with her brother’s. Once again, a comfortable silence fills the house, broken only by Jessie working in the kitchen. She sets out a skillet of corn bread and a slab of butter in the center of the table and watches as the three men finish their meal.

John finishes his coffee. “Mike, I need you to help me mend some fencing today. Sherlock, tag along with us for a bit until I can come up with something for you to do.” Being the eldest son means that John is the ranch foreman for the time being. “Let’s see how much we can get down before lunch.”

~0o0~

Mike and John work for a couple of hours mending fencing. John tries hard not to look too hard at the cattle contained within. Sherlock has managed to throw hay to them all, he seems to be the type to keep busy, even with an injury. Usefully busy, which should gain some points with Jack. John hopes his father will keep the younger man around for a while. He likes to think that he doesn't mean that in a selfish way. 

They are standing near the last cracked post when Jessie comes down from the house with a pitcher of lemonade. She positively beams at Mike when he thanks her for being so kind and almost drops the pitcher. Mike reaches out for it, closing his hand about hers to help steady it. John snorts and picks his hammer off of the ground, in part to remind Mike there’s work to be done, courting can come later. Mike smiles at Jessie one more time and turns back to the job. John chuckles a little under his breath when he notes the tips of Mike’s ears are beet red.

“Mike, I think you actually like my sister.” John drives in another nail with expert precision. He takes another nail from between his teeth and sets it in the wood.

“Well, you told me so much about her, I feel like I already know her.” Mike’s hammer stops in mid-air and he looks away into nothing.

“Hey!” John slaps Mike’s back playfully. “Don’t leave me hanging here!”

Mike actually looks embarrassed to be caught out in a short little daydream. John returns his silly smile and they get back to it; John feeling a bit lighter than before.

They complete the mending on the fence on the first corral before lunchtime. He and Mike put their tools in the barn and head back toward the house. Mike looks around before John realizes that neither of them has seen Sherlock in a few hours. They turn away from the house and head down towards the bunkhouse. They walk through the single barracks-like room in a matter of a minute; no one is there. Mike turns towards the left and John to the right when they exit the bunkhouse.

John wanders down towards the very last corral, the only one they use for horses. Their geldings and the mule have all been turned out in the big pasture for a couple-days break after being pushed hard to get home the day before. The only resident of this corral is a black Mustang stallion that had been brought in by traders a few weeks ago. To his knowledge, Jessie’s been feeding the horse, but there hasn’t been much time to gentle him.

So, naturally, the scene that greets John is a surprise.

Sherlock stands dead center of the corral, stripped to the waist, a light sheen of sweat apparent on his pale skin, his arms out to the sides, palms up toward the sky. The towel that John wrapped him with last night has been discarded with his shirt, both items dropped to the left of the gate in a pile on the ground. He is wearing the same blue jeans and boots he had on the night before. John figures that the young man probably doesn’t even have any other clothes at the moment, but right now that matters not at all. He studies Sherlock carefully, noting several long bruises on his lower back, just over his kidneys. John's got a pretty good idea what kicks to the kidneys will do and knows that those bruises were intentional. Sherlock turns slowly on the spot, his eyes locked on the ground, giving John another look at the bruises over his ribs and chest. 

Generally, the way ranch horses are broken in is by way of either tying them out or just tacking them up and jumping on; the rider holding on until they stop bucking and accept their situation as a riding horse (or die, whichever comes first.) John has heard tales that the Indians often ride a wild horse into a lake or pond or whatever and then jump on their backs. But what he is seeing now, he’s never even heard a whisper of.

Sherlock stands with his back towards the stallion. The horse is reaching towards the bare skin with his muzzle, snorting and blowing. Sherlock’s eyes are now closed, his head is down. The stallion moves around him and Sherlock starts to walk away. The stallion follows, moving slowly next to the young man. Sherlock picks up speed, only slightly moving his head upward. The stallion breaks into a trot. Sherlock stops and spins on his heels, the stallion following in pursuit. John is mesmerized.

The dance is over way too soon, but there is still more to see. Sherlock stops completely, once again turning his back on the horse. He walks to the edge of the corral and picks up an old halter, with lead rope attached. He holds the halter outward, flipping the lead rope over his shoulder. He walks like that back to the center of the corral. The stallion snorts and paws the ground, but he does not move away. John can see Sherlock’s mouth moving, though he cannot hear the words. This is a stallion that has only ever felt the sting of a lasso around his neck as he was captured from his wild band and then brought here. All he knows of humans is that they took him away from his home and that they keep him from being hungry and thirsty. Now, though, it looks like there is something more.

The stallion snorts again and John can see the horse’s skin quivering, even from where he stands. He doesn’t dare get any closer for want of not interrupting. Mike has joined him and the two men stand together, silently watching.

The black Mustang is reaching his head out towards Sherlock again. He takes a sniff of the halter and backs away, snorting and pawing. Sherlock holds his ground. The stallion comes close again, this time sniffing the halter, his nostrils flare with each pass. Each time the horse’s nose comes into contact with the leather, Sherlock very gently pushes the leather against the soft muzzle. With his other hand, he is reaching out towards the horse’s neck.

After an eternity, Sherlock has a hand on the stallion’s neck and his nose in the halter. He keeps talking to the horse, saying those little nothings that seem to be so calming to frightened animals. He scratches the horse’s shoulder and amazingly the Mustang tilts his head down. Sherlock halters him as easily as Jessie throws a halter on her old gelding, Jeb. John is struck dumb.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders so that the lead rope drops into his hand. He moves up to the stallion’s neck and rubs the rope down his neck and across his shoulders, reaching out with the other hand to touch the horse’s belly and chest. The stallion stands still and sniffs Sherlock’s head, his hands, his bare shoulders. Sherlock moves to the off-side and repeats the procedure. He turns away from the horse and with the slightest of tugs on the rope, the stallion follows him towards the gate. Both horse and man look up as Mike and John move to meet them.

John thinks that is probably one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, any mistakes are my own. I am writer, editor and proofreader. Thank you for checking out my story!


	3. Observations

“Jessie, you should have seen it! We only caught the tail-end of the whole thing, but it was magnificent.” John waves his fried chicken leg in the air while he regales his sister with the tale of Sherlock and the stallion.

“Wow.” Jessie breaths. She is only about half impressed because she's only listening to about half of what her brother is telling her. She only has eyes for Mike as they sat around the dining table. Jack had yet to return from his visit to town.

John smiles briefly at his sister and gives it up as a lost cause. She's mooning over Mike something fiercely now. He takes another bite of his chicken, swallows it and reaches over for his glass. He drinks his water quickly, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. He's been feeling like this since before lunch that afternoon, after the whole _Indian-horse-training-episode_ as he is calling it in his own mind. The energy thrumming through his body is like a big old tree that had been hit by lightning. He wonders if there is any way he is ever going to get Sherlock alone.

He turns towards the younger man casually. Sherlock is staring right at him. For a brief second, John has the feeling that he was thinking the same thing. Is that even possible?

John clears his throat. “How did you do that?” He asks with his voice as in-control as he can get it.

“I merely watch for _body language_ , John. I let the animal _tell me_ when _he trusts me_.” Oh lord. Sherlock emphasizes his words by dropping his deep voice even deeper. John is captivated by his eyes: they are certainly _not_ the eyes of an innocent nineteen-year-old boy. The lightning bolt that John has been feeling for the last several hours seems to manifest itself between them. His only hope is that he is keeping it hidden from Mike and Jessie.

“I would love to see the whole thing again. It was amazing.” John would carry the picture in his head for the rest of his days of the bare-chested young man with his head down and his bare back to a wild horse. The display of trust was unlike anything he had ever seen in his entire life.

A scraping sound cuts through their attention on each other and they both stand up from their chairs as a sign of respect to Jessie as she clears away the dishes. Mike jumps up and begins to help her, following her to the kitchen with as many as he can carry. John watches them go, feeling just a tiny bit resentful. It was always okay for _normal_ people to share their attraction out where everyone could see it…

But before he can finish the thought, Sherlock is a solid presence beside him. “Let’s go outside. I still haven’t seen the whole place.”

John nods. He has been struck mute. He moves toward the front door where the sun is just beginning its slow descent into darkness. Their boot heels clank against the old wood as they step off of the porch and follow the dust from the farm house to the bunk house and past the corrals before either of them speaks again.

“You…” John’s words suddenly become tangled on his tongue. He stops their movement with a touch to Sherlock’s elbow. He leans against the fence of the Mustang’s corral. Sherlock’s eyes move from the black horse that is crunching his hay and back to John’s face. He is silent, pensive, watching.

John tries again. “You are like me. I mean. Oh hell, why is this so hard?” John had been so lonely for the last eighteen months. In the city it was easier to talk to people. Why was this so difficult now?

To his credit, Sherlock did not sneer or laugh or even turn away. His simple “yes” was enough. He leans his hard body up against John, crowding him into the fence, though he does not touch him with his hands. John is hyperaware of Sherlock's broken rib and parts of his body that are most decidely _not_ injured. They stand there for a moment, both fascinated by the other’s eyes. Sherlock dips his head downward and finally traces John's jaw with one finger. John cannot control the shiver that runs through his body from the burning point on his jaw where Sherlock touched him as it winds it's way down his back. He places one hand on Sherlock’s waist and lets the other hang at his side. It’s enough. Sherlock leans down and John pulls upward to meet his lips, using his empty hand to push himself upward on the fence rail for stability. The kiss is soft but enough for now; a promise for _later_.

Sherlock steps back at the same time John picks up the sound of wagon wheels striking the ground. He gives Sherlock one last lingering look and the two of them head towards the sound, walking far enough apart that no one would question their actions.

They reach the open wagon just as Jack is pulling the mule to a stop. John goes over to her and scratches one long ear. “Hey Strawberry, are you up for some grub?” He starts unbuckling her driving harness. She’s only slightly sweaty, mostly under the leather and is not blowing hard at all. She nuzzles John’s hand and licks at the sweat on his forearm. He hopes that he is out of his father’s line of sight, at least until he can calm down a bit. He can hear Jack’s gravelly voice, but his mind is too preoccupied to listen to individual words. It’s the same thing each time, though, explaining to them about what he purchased in town and the days that the cattle will be driven to the market. He hopes that Sherlock will be healed enough to ride with them.

Jessie and Mike are already unloading packages from behind the seat. Jessie takes hers into the house and Mike turns toward the barn. Jack jumps down from the seat and heads toward the outhouse, pausing to thank the young people for their help on his way. Sherlock steps up to Strawberry’s head and then around behind John and lightly touches his hand. John nods the affirmative and steps away from the mule to help with the unloading. Sherlock watches him walk away, pats the mule on her strong neck and then leads her towards the barn and dinner. His ribs are still sore so he knows that trying to maneuver anything heavier than a couple flakes of hay and a water bucket would be a mistake. He knew at a glance that there are several rather weighty packages in the wagon and he doesn’t want to look like a fool not being able to lift them yet, so at least he can be useful with the livestock. As he leads Strawberry to an empty stall, he snags a curry brush and a hoof pick with the other hand. He turns her around in the stall and tips the hoof pick into his back pocket.

Sherlock gently removes Strawberry’s halter, the mule holding her head down even though Sherlock is tall enough to do it without the help. She’s a well-trained animal with a calm, even temperament. Sherlock allows himself to daydream for a few minutes while he throws her some hay and checks her water bucket. It’s still full from when he came through earlier today. He moves into the stall beside her and curries her with gentle hands. He bends to each foot and picks out the road dirt. She shifts from one side to the other, holding each foot up as he runs his hands down her legs. He steps back to her head and pats her neck. She snorts and he takes note that she’s eaten her fill. He opens the stall door and steps out. Strawberry follows him out to the pasture where he opens the gate for her. She gives him her best look of gratitude, steps right through the gate and drops to the ground on the other side for a good roll in the dust.

Sherlock latches the gate and makes his way back to the bunkhouse to catch some shut-eye. The sun has almost completely set, the midnight blue of night coming on quickly.

Jack Watson stands out of sight against the wall of the barn with his arms crossed about his chest. He watches the young man work with the old mule. He is impressed with what he sees; Sherlock's movements are calm but sure. He could very well be a benefit to this outfit. John has just been telling him about Sherlock’s work with the stallion and he has come out to talk to the young man for a few minutes alone. He watches as Sherlock leads Strawberry from the barn without so much as a hand on her shoulder. He sees the young man latch the gate carefully; watching him as he moves towards the bunkhouse. He is so quiet, thinks Jack. Like his son, Jack has certainly noted that while his body may be that of a nineteen-year-old boy, Sherlock’s eyes are absolutely not.

Jack turns back toward the house, sore and stiff from a long day of trading. Time for a night cap and then some sleep.


	4. Price to Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little rough.

Over the next few weeks the weather becomes more bitter, Mike and Jessie’s relationship blooms, and Sherlock gains his health back. Every day he does ranch chores and helps care for the livestock. Every chance they get, John and Sherlock find some time to be alone. It’s a strange new thing for both of them, fragile in its newness. There is something about being accepted for who they are that grows between them. It is a breath of fresh air.

Finally, the time has arrived to drive the cattle to the market. Jack Watson has watched as the health of his meager herd has actually improved and he knows that he owes his thanks to the skinny young man named Sherlock Holmes. Though he knows the boy to be half-Indian, he thinks his skin is pale enough to pass. They shouldn’t have too much trouble in town.

Jack walks through the ranch yard studying his herd. He can tell that the little bit of extra care given to the cattle has actually helped some of them put on weight. He had to purchase some extra hay, but he did get a deal on it from the ranch five miles down the road. It was a small price to pay. The best of the herd from before will actually gain a decent price and the worst of the lot will sell low at best, but they will sell. Jack’s is a scrub herd with a mix of Longhorn and Herefords. With winter coming up, however, beef is beef, so he should at least break even over last year. That will certainly see his family through the winter. It’s a good feeling to be able to provide for his children and two extras. Since Sarah’s death, it seems that he hasn’t been doing it nearly enough.

He rests a foot on the bottom rail of the horse corral. Here, too, is something he should be thankful for. Sherlock has shown himself to be a bit of a horse trainer. Though he had originally traded the black Mustang stallion in order to take the horse to market and sell, he figures that giving him to Sherlock is decent payback for the health of his cattle and the colt that the young man is currently working with. The colt belongs to one of their neighbors and the man was willing to trade a coop full of chickens and a nice roping saddle for a saddle-broke colt. The saddle will go to Sherlock, too, and the chickens will give fresh eggs next spring.

Jack leans on the fence and studies the strange young man that seems to have struck up a decidedly close friendship with his son. In the corral, Sherlock is sacking out the bay colt, calmly stroking the horse with an empty sack across his body, even going so far as to flip the cloth at the horse’s face. The colt snorts a little and steps back, but he does not run away and his ears stay pointed at Sherlock. John soon comes to join his father at the fence and he watches his friend.

“That’s a nice thing you did, Dad.” It’s a cold day and John’s words come out in little smoky huffs. His tan cheeks are faintly pink from the air and the hay stacking he and Mike have been working on.

“Yes.” Jack is a man of few words, though he believes his son understands.

They watch the training for a little longer. Sherlock is now astride the two-year-old colt and is slowly guiding him around with a rope around his neck. Jack knows he’ll get even more for a neck-reined colt. Sherlock seems to be completely focused on the horse. John watches as he sits back on his rump and squeezes the horse’s flanks. The colt steps out a little more and Sherlock rides him right up to the Watsons.

“Sir, I think one more day with this one.”Sherlock relaxes his hold on the rope and the colt comes to a complete stop.

“That’s pretty amazing, son, since it’s only been three days.” Jack feels a strange sense of pride in the young man. He’s pretty much adopted the two orphans; it’s been a good decision for all of them, all things considered. Sherlock nods his head, turns his gaze towards John for a moment, briefly closing his eyes. He turns the colt around and this time squeezes his legs a little tighter, asking the colt for a lope. They move out swiftly and Jack notes that horse’s ears swiveling as if listening for a command.

“He rides awful well, John.” Jack observes.

“Yessir.” John is always afraid to lavish too much praise on his friend. With all of his heart, he wishes he could talk about his feelings with his father, but he knows that day will probably never happen.

Jack studies his son’s profile for a moment, noting that the young man’s golden hair is starting to lighten. He figures by the time he’s Jack’s own age that it will be completely white. He suddenly struck with the image of Sarah’s father, Colonel Henderson. The Colonel was a stout man and had served the Union throughout the war. He had been a cavalry soldier and a doctor. John was very much like him, in build and personality.

“See you up the house, son.” Jack lays a hand on John’s shoulder. John nods at him, never taking his eyes off of his friend. Jack gets the impression his son has something to say to him but chooses to remain quiet. Jack walks away.

John meets Sherlock and the colt at the gate. Sherlock hops off the horse. The colt nods his head down and Sherlock gives his ears a good scratch. His long black tail twitches and smacks his flanks. Sherlock smiles broadly, an action that sparks some emotion in his eyes. John grins back at him and opens the gate. Sherlock steps through and right into John’s arms. He leans down for a quick kiss. Just stolen seconds is all they have before they can hear Jessie ringing the triangle to call them all in for lunch. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s and they share yet another look. They turn together to answer the call of the bell.

~0o0~

The next morning they are all up before the sun. Sherlock, Mike, and John are getting the horses tacked up for the day. Jack and Jessie are rummaging about the kitchen, packing some jerky and brewing strong coffee. Finally ready, Jack gives his daughter a squeeze and goes out to meet the others.

As he pulls himself up into the saddle, Jack gives out his orders. He checks to make sure that his gun is on his hip securely. Mike is going to ride point with him and John and Sherlock will take up the rear guard. Their job is to watch for stragglers and keep them moving. The men drink their coffee down quickly. Jessie takes their cups to the porch and then heads out to the corrals to open the gates. As she opens each gate, one of the men rides in and rounds the cattle up and out. Finally, they are all sorted.

Jessie steps up next to Mike and he reaches down to her, planting a rather dramatic kiss on her lips. She blushes and holds a hand up to her lips. John laughs so hard when Mike’s ears turn red that he almost falls out of his saddle. A few feet away, Sherlock gives a little snort. Jack calls for them all to settle down. He touches the brim of his hat in Jessie’s direction and sets a swift pace. They should make it to town within two hours.

~0o0~

It’s been a really good ride and they have all worked well together. They haven’t lost a single steer along the road. Jack rides right up to the holding pens and a man carrying a clipboard opens the gate to an empty pen for him. Jack and the man confer for a few minutes as Jack’s trio of ranch hands push the herd into the pen. It’s only their herd for the moment and the man gets a quick count. He writes something down on the paper on his clipboard and tears a section off of it, handing it up to Jack. Jack nods and tucks the paper into his shirt. He rides out away from the pen, waiting on the boys to meet up with him at the saloon across the road.

Mike waits for Sherlock and John as they circle around the herd. The man with the clip board closes the gate and gives them all a hearty wave. They take a meandering way, looking over the other cattle in the other pens. Jack’s herd really isn’t in any worse and only slightly better shape than the others. The dry season has been tough on everyone.

The three young men are riding abreast, their mounts pointed towards the saloon. They are all resting one hand on their saddle horns. Mike and John are conversing animatedly, occasionally laughing at a shared joke. Content for the moment, Sherlock sits deep in his borrowed saddle studying everything around them. They pass a small group of men standing around the stockyard. Most of them are big, white, and angry looking. They are smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

“Whoo hoo! Lookit them little _pansies_ bringin in the herd for _daadddiiiee!_ ” One of the men calls out to them.

John stops his horse and just stares at the men, not quite eager for a fight but not afraid of it, either. The men are all rip-roaring drunk. He looks over at Mike. Mike brings his horse up closer to John’s, effectively blocking Sherlock from their view.

“Fucking Neanderthal.” Mike spits out at them before considering his words. John snickers at the joke. Sherlock knows when to shut up and sit back so he does. He is secretly hoping that his cousin and friend can take care of the threat. He has no desire to get hurt yet again for no good reason.

The biggest one, who seems to be the leader of the little pack, steps out into the street and grabs Mike’s reins. Mike draws back his foot and gifts the man with a bootprint to the face. The man screeches and grabs his nose, but he backs off from them. Mike’s horse rolls his eyes a little and dances sideways. That’s when the big thug gets an eyeful of Sherlock. As the other two of the men join in, the big guy reaches over, grabs at Sherlock’s leg and yanks the skinny boy out of the saddle. Before he has time to retaliate, Sherlock hits the ground with a crash. The stallion that he broke and is now called Raven rears up over him and brings his hooves down on the back of one of the thugs as the fool reaches for his reins. The man is out cold.

“Yer gonna pay for that, filthy halfbreed!” The lead thug grabs Sherlock by the hair and pulls him up. Mike is already off of his horse and into fisticuffs with the other man. John jumps down from his own horse and wades in. The leader is punching Sherlock’s torso as hard as he possibly can. John makes to step in between them when one of the blows catches him on the side of the head. He crumples to the ground and blacks out, but not before he hears the man call Sherlock a _berdache_.

In the saloon, Jack is standing at the bar enjoying a conversation with the bartender, a man named Joshua. When he hears the commotion outside, he runs for the door. Noting that it’s Ian Keller who has Sherlock in one meaty fist, he rushes to join in.

Jack takes Ian out with a single hit. He makes a satisfied grunt when the bigger man hits the dirt with a thud. He shakes his hand. It’s been awhile since he’s had to knuckle up and hit one of these fools, but the pain is worth the knowledge that he can still fight when he needs to do it.

Sherlock slumps down, resting his throbbing head on his drawn-up knees.  His lip and nose are bleeding, though he is coherent when Jack asks him if he’s going to be alright. Mike stands over him with one hand on Sherlock’s bony shoulder. His cousin’s warm presence is oddly comforting to the injured man.

John is still out cold, but comes around quickly when Jack rolls him over. The three of them are a bit of a mess, Sherlock the worst off. He looks up at Mike, blood dripping from his lip and one eye beginning to go black. Anger rushes through Mike’s body. This whole thing was just stupid! He pats his cousin on the shoulder, uncertain really of what else he can do at the moment.

Jack turns back to Sherlock after checking to see if John can sit up on his own. Sherlock’s entire body goes tense as he waits for the hammer to fall.

“Sherlock….”

Sherlock cuts him off before the man has time to finish his statement. “It’s alright, sir, I understand. Just let me get my feet back under me and I’ll be gone.” He hangs his head and watches a drop of blood hit the ground. He’s not really sure where he’s going to go, but since the Transcontinental was just finished, if he can make it to the railroad, he can hop…

“What are you on about, boy?” Jack grabs Sherlock’s shoulder, forcing the young man to look up at him. Sherlock is reminded firmly of a grizzly bear. He realizes that he is blathering like an idiot and shuts his jaw with a snap. Not for long though. He feels an agonizing need to just _talk_.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble, sir. I will understand if you don’t want me back…”

“That’s a load of shit, Sherlock.” Jack’s voice has gone soft. He kneels down in front of Sherlock who has finally managed to rein in his mouth. “Son, I don’t care about your bloodline. I don’t care what you look like or where you’ve been. You have helped us out an awful lot the last few weeks; I’d be stupider than a two-headed sheep to send you on your way.”

Jack stands up and prods Ian’s unconscious body with the toe of his boot. “You are worth a hundred of this bastard.” He smoothes his mustache with his left hand while his right fingers the butt of the gun on his hip. He seems to make up his mind about something. “Mike, take him over the saloon and clean him up a little. Sit down and get some grub, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“And, boys?” Mike stops and waits to hear more. “I know full-well who started this. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Move along, now. Me and John will be there shortly.” Jack reaches down and rests his arm under John’s shoulders to help him up. John lurches to his feet, and held up by his father, follows Mike and Sherlock through the swinging doors.

Ian Keller starts to stir on the ground. He turns his head enough to see the back of Jack Watson. Considering his options, he decides the dirt road is much more comfy than the business end of Jack’s Colt .45 so he closes his eyes and elects to remain where he has fallen.

Mike helps Sherlock take a seat at one of the tables scattered about the saloon. There’s a card game going on in the back, but since it’s just after midday, things are pretty quiet. Sherlock appreciates the lack of noise, and realizes that he is still dazed, but it’s for more than one reason. After all these years, has he finally discovered _acceptance_?


	5. Love Hurts

Winter time arrives with a six inch blanket of new snow. It’s a week before Christmas and the Watson family plus two are relaxing in the sitting room having drinks and watching a roaring fire. Jessie is happily hanging up paper streamers around the mantle while John is shaking out a pine tree in the corner. Mike is helping him stand the thing up and Sherlock is watching them with an eyebrow cocked. They bicker back and forth as friends are wont to do; it’s quite humorous, especially as the tree rocks back and forth and threatens to fall over completely at one point.

Jack is camped out on the couch, his big hands making short work of a tear in his leather vest. He works tirelessly, the silver needle flashing in the light from the flames as he makes a neat little row of very precise stitches. He listens to his children and their friends and gives himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of being home and having his loved ones nearby as the snow storm builds up outside.

The horses are all safely tucked away in the barn. It was John and Sherlock’s project _du jour_ to get the stalls mucked out, water buckets hung, hay and straw spread. Jessie and Mike had gone around the house closing up the shudders in an attempt to keep some heat in the old house. The only window left open to the elements is the big bay window in the sitting room, where they can all occasionally steal glances out at the rapidly falling snow. That afternoon, they had all carried and stacked firewood, preparing for the possibility of being trapped inside for a few days while the storm worked its way across the countryside.

John and Mike finish with the tree and Jessie laughs happily, actually clapping her hands as she rushes out of the room. Mike smiles to himself as he watches her leave. John chuckles and pats his friend on the shoulder; he and Sherlock share a quiet look behind Mike’s back. If it were only that easy, John muses as he takes a seat and lifts his glass from the table. The cider is finally cool enough to drink and he takes a pull from it, making a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. When Jessie and Mike get married (and there seems to be absolutely no doubt about that whatsoever) he’s going to have to talk her into staying here with them, his cooking in no way even comes close to hers, he figures they’ll just starve to death or have to live on beans and cornbread.

Sherlock walks behind his chair and settles a hand on John’s shoulder. John very imperceptibly flexes it, letting Sherlock know the gesture is very much appreciated. Sherlock picks up his own glass and settles on the couch near Jack, turning his gaze onto Jack’s project, calmly cataloging not only the stitches but the way that the older man holds the needle. Mike settles into the other chair with his own glass, studying the fire reflectively. The men share a quiet moment; comfortable with their own thoughts.

Jessie returns to the sitting room with an old, dusty box of Christmas decorations. She picks out a rather moth-eaten paper chain and unceremoniously drapes it about Mike’s shoulders. She giggles and runs to the other side of the room. He snorts, smiles and chases her. There’s a sudden snap of _something_ that’s pretty obvious to everyone else and suddenly they are wrapped around each other, Jessie’s hands around Mike’s neck and his arms around her waist. Above them is a sprig of mistletoe. Once again, Sherlock and John’s eyes lock across the room. Jack looks up from his neat stitching, seems to count in his head and clears his throat, a twinkle in his eyes and grin on his face. He reaches up with the hand not holding his glass and smoothes his mustache.

Jessie and Mike pull apart like they’ve just been splashed with cold water. John snickers at his sister, whose eyes are open wide, her face red. Mike is simply embarrassed and he looks down at the wooden floor that has suddenly become highly interesting. Jack’s booming laugh carries out to them.

“Kids, love is a good thing. There’s just a time and a place…” He holds his cider out in a toast to them.

John and Jessie finish their father’s sentence for him. “…for everything!” They are all laughing then and its fine, truly. Mike and Sherlock look on, both pleased to be part of something so normal. It is wonderful to be surrounded by such people.

After the cider is gone and the tree is as decorated as it’s going to get, Jack decides that it’s too cold to ask his ranch hands to sleep in the bunk house that night. He and Jessie rummage about in the back of the house and produce enough blankets and pillows to make a couple of decent pallets in front of the fire. They all move the furniture back. Jessie turns in first, followed soon after by her father. The three young men sit around until after midnight listening to the plans Mike has for his and Jessie’s future. John is pleased to hear that they have set a date for their wedding, which will take place in the early spring.

~0o0~

John is curled in his blankets. He’s been trying to sleep for over an hour with no luck. He can hear the cold wind smacking against the wooden shutters pulled tight over his window. He can hear the snap of wood in the sitting room and see the light from the low burning fire. He thinks about how his father really is a good man and has worked so hard to keep everything from falling down around them since his mother died. Some part of him regrets not having been here for her final days, though he is fully aware of the fact that at the end she recognized nothing except her own pain.

He sighs and turns over onto his back. He can hear Mike and Sherlock talking in low tones in the sitting room and considers just going back in there to be with them, since he can’t sleep. Who is he fooling, though? He wants to be with Sherlock. He wishes that their affection could be shown so openly as his sister’s and Mike’s. A tiny ember of anger attempts to ignite itself in his chest, but he stomps it out quickly. That’s not fair to them, he thinks. After a while, his thoughts scatter and he doses.

John is awakened by the creak of floorboards and the sound of a wooden door being closed quietly. The room is as dark as an empty well. His blankets are pulled back and then, finally, there is a tall, lean and very warm body next to his. He thinks about shimmying out of his long underwear; however, the rational part of his brain whispers that they absolutely cannot get caught. They have done this a couple of times now; Sherlock always wakes with the dawn and creeps silently back to his bunk.

He pulls Sherlock closer and wraps his arms around the skinny boy. Sherlock burrows his head into John’s neck. John gently presses kisses on the top of his head, inhaling the scent of pine tree and the slight smell of the fire from the sitting room. Sherlock makes a happy purring noise in his throat and curls in as tight as is possible, laying one hand on John’s chest as if feeling the heartbeat under his palm. The cold wind howls outside. Their little nest is warm and both of them are asleep in minutes, exhausted from working to ready the ranch for a storm.

~0o0~

“JOHN!” Jessie’s shrill voice cuts through the morning air like a hot knife through butter.

John’s head spins as he comes to and tries to make sense of things. The warmth on his chest is suddenly gone as Sherlock jerks awake. His head swims as he turns from the shock and fear on his lover’s face to the utter shock on his sister’s. He’s torn between fear and the desire to protect the trembling figure sitting up next to him. As John sits up, Jessie can clearly see that though Sherlock is shirtless, John is still in his long underwear and Sherlock is wearing a pair of the bottoms himself.

Jessie’s face goes from pasty white to tomato red. Part of her is not surprised, she has known her brother her entire life after all, and is hard pressed to remember any ladies in his life. The shock comes from simply seeing what she’s suspected all along. It does not take very long, but her mind has already come to terms with what she is seeing and she is strangely alright about it. She nods in her brother’s direction and makes to turn away and close the door behind herself. What really happens however is that she walks right into her father’s chest with a whump sound.

Jack gently pulls her out of the doorway and turns to face his son. Jessie disappears. That’s the least of John’s worries, however. Sherlock is still sitting beside him, frozen in terror. His green eyes are huge and his usual pale skin has taken on an a sickly pallor. His body is trembling, his gaze far away.

From the doorway, Jack takes in the scene, noting the clothing and lack of on his son and Sherlock. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and rolls his shoulders. He says absolutely nothing. John sits up further in his bed, his back to Sherlock, and spreads his arms wide. His father has absolutely no expression on his face. He is neither angry nor happy, merely resigned. Like Jessie, he is no fool. He loves his children and wants them to have a better life than he has had.

After a tense moment, he finally speaks; his voice gruff. “You know this is no easy path you walk, son.”

John’s own eyes widen and he obediently nods to his father; his rather powerful father who steps into fist fights to protect those he cares about. Does he see John’s actions as betrayal? John pushes back against Sherlock, trying to reassure the frightened young man. Jack takes note of the action. He turns away from them.

“When you are decent, I will see you both in the dining room.” He gently closes the door.

The sound of the door closing rocks Sherlock into motion. He tears around John’s room, grabbing his boots and pulling them on. John tries to comfort him, tries to speak to him calmly, and makes several attempts to grab hold of his shoulders. Sherlock is having none of it. He’s like a terrified animal, his eyes roving around the room at top speed. John can clearly see that he has been pushed back in time, to a situation that he barely made it out of. For only a second, his eyes meet John’s and then the door is pulled open and John can hear his lover’s feet pounding the wooden floor at a dead run.

John hauls ass out of his bedroom, falling flat on his face in the hallway. A corner of the blanket is tangled about his ankle and it has felled him like snakebite. He growls and fights with the twisted material. Mike is suddenly by his side, helping him to his feet. It’s only been a couple of minutes since his father closed his bedroom door but John can feel that Sherlock is gone from the house. It is at that moment he feels the hot tears streaming down his face


	6. Searching

Jack is in the kitchen ladling scrambled eggs onto plates for five. He is calmly going over in his head all of the things that he wants to say to his son. He knows love when he sees it and in his experience a love born from friendship generally stands against the test of time. He always thought of his Sarah as his best friend first, his wife second. In the last few months his own opinion about a lot of things has changed; he stopped thinking _half-breed_ every time he looks at Sherlock and started thinking about Sherlock the _man_. He knows that his change of mind certainly does not align itself with the majority of people they come into contact with, so he wants to stress that to them. Mostly, though, he thinks he needs to tell his son that he loves him. He knows he hasn’t said it much in the past, but sometimes he hears Sarah’s voice in the back of his head reminding him that his children need to hear it.

He thinks of her beautiful blue eyes and her silky brown hair. He can feel the last touch of her hand against his face. He closes his eyes and sends a silent message to her, wherever she may be, that he is thankful and misses her terribly. He thinks that she would be proud of her family, both of their children in love with good men. He chuckles a little to himself, it’s still a new idea; he’s never been one to back down from new ideas. Without fresh ideas, the world would just come to a screeching halt the way the train does when there’s a cow on the tracks.

The slamming of the heavy door catches him off-guard, rudely pulling him away from his musings. Mike comes into the room supporting John. John shakes his head and pushes away to land heavily in one of the chairs.

“Son, what’s happened?” Jack asks quietly.

“He…he.” John swallows past the lump in his throat. “Dad. Sherlock: he’s been hurt before, I swear, we were just lying together.” John shakes his head again, trying to think clearly past his pain. He starts over. “Sir, Sherlock and I. We…” The tears threaten to spill over again.

“I understand John. I just wanted to talk with you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way you look at him. I’m an old fool, son, but I’m not an ignorant old fool.”

John is completely startled. He looks up to his father, shock plainly written all over his face. “Dad?”

“John. You are my son. You are who you are. You are both good, hard-working men. Who am I to say who you can have relationships with? Have I ever been that person?”

“No sir.” John considers all the times he _could_ have told his dad about what was happening at the medical practice. Someday. Now is not the time. He tilts his head and studies the wood grain of the table. He has severely underestimated his father.

“Fine , then.” He reaches over to the plates and puts one down in front of John. “Eat. We will find him.”

John shovels in his breakfast as fast as he is able without choking. Jack tells Mike to stay with Jessie, who has finally come out of her room. She stands behind her brother with her hands on his shoulders, giving comfort and support. John pats her hands when he has had enough. He moves quickly to his room to throw his clothes on over his long underwear. Two pair of wool socks goes on under his boots. He stops for a moment and thinks that Sherlock was wearing nothing but a thin shirt and blue jeans. He scrounges around and finds a thicker shirt and another thick pair of socks. At the front door, Jack has gathered up an extra fur coat. It’s a hideous thing in John’s eyes, but he knows at this point beggars can’t be choosers.

It has been fifteen minutes since a very thinly dressed, skinny, and terrified nineteen-year-old man rushed out of the ranch house and into seven inches of snow. John and his father mount up and follow the trail of boot prints that leads from the house to the barn, then the hoof prints that lead from the barn up the hill and out to the main road. In the best weather the town and stockyard is a two-hour ride. Today the going will be treacherous. John can only hold onto hope that they find Sherlock before the cold or something worse befalls him.

 ~0o0~

Sherlock’s mind is a chaotic mess. He can’t think. He is bent almost in half with his torso alongside Raven’s neck. He grips the horse’s barrel with his thighs as they gallop out of the barn. He is glad that he agreed to have the horse shod. As they rush up the hill, Sherlock grabs a handful of mane and pulls his body upward, giving the horse the least amount of weight to contend with. He did not take a saddle nor a bridle; he guides Raven with a rope around his neck, his voice, his hands, and his legs. Finally up the hill, he leans down over the horse’s neck and nudges him with his heels. Raven is full of himself today, after being cooped up in the barn for almost a whole day. He snorts and kicks out at the snow. Sherlock doesn’t correct him because he is only barely paying attention.

Over and over in his mind he can see Jack Watson’s face. He tries to analyze exactly what he saw, but his mind supplied images that he hoped to never deal with again. Anger, betrayal, and the desire to punish come first and then there is the screams of his mother…

Sherlock opens his eyes and lets the cold air sting them. He has worked hard to put those memories behind him. It has been slow going with John, but John seems to accept Sherlock as he is. John has never pried into Sherlock’s past; he’s only given him comfort and allowed him to decide how fast they would go with each step of their relationship.

Sherlock’s hands are so cold. He winds Raven’s mane through his fingers, hoping that if they become too numb he won’t lose his grip and fall to the roadside. He has no sense of direction, only _away_. He closes his eyes against the weak dawn sunlight glinting off of the newly fallen snow. Part of him wants to stop and enjoy its beauty while another part of him wants to just lean over and go to a permanent sleep in it.

His body moves with the horse’s rhythm. It is all he wants to think about; he needs to get away from the memories.

~0o0~

Sheriff Lestrade, like so many other people on this snowy morning, is sitting at his kitchen table enjoying a hot cup of coffee. He has sweetened his a little, considering that only the most dumbass of criminals would be causing problems in this weather. He is thinking that as soon as he finishes this cup he’ll go outside and see if he can shovel some of the snow from in front of the house and the two-stall barn, just on the off chance that someone might actually need him today.

He laces up his boots and finishes up his coffee. He grabs his thick winter coat from the hook near the door and steps out onto his porch. His house sits in front of the jailhouse, which is currently empty since Keller and his two goons cleared out of it yesterday. Lestrade considers how much trouble that one man causes the town and wishes he would just jump on the Transcontinental and leave the area for good. If only he could get that lucky.

The sun is completely up over the hills and he is shoveling a walk-way through the snow in front of the little stable when Jack Watson and his son come riding into town, all hellbent for leather. Their horses are actually sweating and Jack’s big bay gelding is frothing at the mouth. Greg sets his shovel down and starts walking out to meet the men.

Jack reins his horse in next to Greg. The sheriff reaches up and hand and Jack clasps it in his own. Without any preamble, Jack explains the whole matter in about sixty seconds to the only other person he knows won’t pass judgment. Greg notes the misery apparent in every line of John’s body. He nods his head and moves towards the little barn to grab his own mount. He doesn’t have anyone he can call upon to help with a search-and-rescue, so the three of them will have to be enough.

~0o0~

Sherlock’s first mistake was _not thinking_. Had he stopped for just a second, he would have been able to read Jack Watson’s face and understand that the man was not angry, just concerned. His second mistake was allowing the demons from his past to resurface and lay their claim in his mind. His third mistake was rushing out into the cold unprepared. His head hangs down; he is barely still sitting on Raven. The horse is now walking along, his nose pointing to the hard, cold ground. Occasionally, Sherlock is brought around by the sound of a horse shoe striking a rock. Somewhere in his mind he knows that the railroad tracks are near. He vaguely remembers being along this trail before. The long, low sound of a train whistle proves that he is right. He lightly pushes his left calf against Raven’s side and the horse moves in the direction of the sound.

They finally arrive at a well-used jumping-off place. The snow here has been packed down from the dozen or so disenfranchised men who hop the train and go from town to town looking for work. Sherlock has absolutely no way of knowing that Ian Keller is one of those men. Though the train has been through this part of the country for less than a year, it’s already proven its usefulness in a short span of time.

He’s just going to sit here and wait until the next train crests that rise over there. He is barely conscious at this point; barely able to hold his head up, but his eyes are steely and clear. He just can’t seem to get past the memories. Sherlock leans down against Raven, trying desperately to conserve any body heat that he can get. His eyes close and the two of them are a still as a monument against the horizon.

~0o0~

“Over here!” John calls out to his father and the sheriff. After a lengthy search, they finally caught Sherlock’s trail. They are on the trail just overlooking the town, headed towards where the railroad crisscrosses the open land. It’s been three hours and John is starting to feel like they are running out of time. Jack and the sheriff catch up to John quickly and they make their way down the trail.

~0o0~

The sound of the train whistle wakes Sherlock up just enough to untangle his fingers from Raven’s mane. He looks down the little hill and tries to clear his head enough to count seconds between cars. He dismounts slowly and gives the stallion one last pat on the shoulder. He is really going to miss this horse; he’s been one of the best. He looks back to the train now speeding up along the tracks. He leans forward and sways, but quickly recovers. He needs to get on that train or die trying.

Finally, the empty cars begin to pass by. Once again he leans forward, counting. He jumps just as the search party, such that it is, comes around the bend.

John sees Sherlock jump towards the train. He knows exactly what his lover is doing and he calls out to him. “Stop!” The noise of the train and the rush of the wind, however, carry his breath and his voice away. Jack reaches out towards his son and grabs for his coat; his fingers only grasp cold air. John has pushed his horse forward and is already dismounting in the same spot where Sherlock jumped from. In an instant, he, too, is on the westbound train. It will not stop for the next six hours.

Jack and Greg simply stop moving forward. The sheriff turns towards the man he’s known for twenty years with a pained expression. Jack’s calls out to him to turn back. “There is nothing we can do to help them now. I’ve got to trust my son, Lestrade.”

The sheriff agrees with him and they ride back into town.


	7. Life for a Life

John doesn’t know it yet, but he has managed to land only three cars down from the one Sherlock made it into. He is jittery from the chase so he paces inside the empty car until it becomes too bumpy to do so. He manages to pull the door most of the way closed so that it at least cuts down on some of the cold rushing through the car. The floor is wooden and with each rotation of the wheels, it creaks. John sits against the wall farthest from the door and draws his knees to his chest. It’s going to be a long day.

After resting for a couple of hours, he can feel the train starting to slow. He has no idea when it is going to stop again, but something in the back of his mind is telling him that he needs to find Sherlock _now. Right now_. Maybe it’s his former medical education, because once he starts thinking about death from exposure he cannot shake it off. He moves towards the door and pushes it, trying hard to ignore the landscape flashing by.

Without stopping to think about how stupid this really is, John puts his feet down on the narrow rail under the car. He leans against the wooden sides and pushes himself along. It takes a few minutes, but he finally gets to the next car down the line. He crawls in through the door and searches. This one is empty. He goes back out and starts all over again. This time he’s a little faster. After crawling into the second car, he is really starting to feel the cold and he sees that the sun is much lower on the horizon. A nagging little voice in his head tells him to keep going. Once it’s fully dark the cold is only going to get worse.

~0o0~

Three cars from John, Sherlock has quite literally passed out from the cold. He didn’t have the strength to even pull the door partially closed. He is completely unaware that another man joins him at the next jumping-off spot along the trail. He’s a big, burly man whose eyes gleam with malice when he takes note of the weakened condition of other person in the car with him. He slides the door closed.

Ian Keller moves in on Sherlock like a cougar stalking its prey. He leans over the unconscious man, allowing his eyes to give the once-over. He hates Injuns and he hates half-breeds and he sure as hell hates these pretty boys.

“Fucking pansy. I’ll betcha this one _reads_ , too.” He spits out. Of course, Sherlock can’t hear him, but it makes him feel better to say the words all the same. He kicks at Sherlock’s body and gets no response. Might even be better this way, he thinks. Let this little bastard wake up while he’s teaching him a lesson. He pulls at Sherlock’s clothes, undoing the fly on his jeans and yanking them off of him. He starts in on the long underwear and almost has them all the way off when Sherlock comes to.

Sherlock’s mind may be sluggish, but he’s been in life-or-death situations before. He comes fully aware in a matter of seconds. In the dim light of the train car he can make out the size and shape of the man who is attempting to get his clothes off. Sherlock kicks out and the man grunts when his boots make contact with his chest. Sherlock is winded easily, though, mostly from struggling through the cold for the better part of the day. He’s had nothing to eat or drink since supper the night before.

A large hand reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the throat. The man attached to the strong hand leans in and Sherlock recognizes Ian from that day at the stockyard. His eyes grow wide and he fights for control as Ian squeezes. Sherlock knows that Ian only has one hand on him, because the other one is still fighting to get the long johns off of his legs. Knowing full well what Ian intends he kicks his legs and claws at the hand on his throat. Sherlock’s fingers are so numb that he can barely feel them. Ian is not looking at Sherlock’s face; rather he’s watching his prey while he pulls the young man’s clothes off of him.

Sherlock’s world is slowly going black around the edges. It’s only a matter of time before he will be completely at this brute’s mercy. He knows that mercy will be the last thing he is getting so he feebly continues to kick and thrash his legs. He may be losing this fight very soon, he thinks desperately.

~0o0~

John gets to the third car to find the door almost completely shut. He works his gloved fingers into the crack between the wall and the door. It’s hard going with the train beginning to speed up and the wind beating against him. It finally starts to give and as John slides it, the sight that greets him almost stuns him enough to let go.

Ian Keller is holding Sherlock’s throat in one hand and his other hand is tugging at Sherlock’s long underwear. Sherlock’s jeans are already off, stopped from hitting the dirty floor by his boots. His eyes are closed and his legs are barely moving. John summons what strength he has left in his shaking hands and arms to reach down into his own boot to remove the hunting knife he keeps stashed there. He pushes himself off of his knees and moves up behind Keller, who is a good head taller than John. Ian outweighs John at least two-to-one.

John steals a look at Sherlock. His eyes are closed and his face is a sickly bluish color. John needs to stop this _right now_. That’s enough to spur him into action. He expertly shoves the blade between two of Keller’s ribs. Keller releases Sherlock instantly and Sherlock hits the floor of the train car hard, his head bouncing as he lands. Keller locks his eyes on John’s. The man is like a raging bull, full of hormones and hate. He looks down at the knife poking out of his ribs and pulls it out, dropping it to the floor. John taunts him while backing towards the open door. He only has one chance to get this right.

“You bastard. What have you done?” John calls out to the big man.

“Gonna teach your pansy little half-breed a lesson, boy. Who the hell are you…” Ian coughs and John sees bloody flecks on his cruel lips. Ian swipes his mouth with one hand. He wipes his hand on his jeans without looking at it. His eyes are frighteningly intense, seemingly lit from within with an unholy glow that has only grown worse since he’s been feeding it a steady diet of alcohol and opium.

“Wouldn’t that make you a pansy, too, then?” John is playing a game that only one of them can win. He doesn’t see it that way; however, his focus is only on getting rid of this threat so that he can help Sherlock.

“You little redskin lover! Don’t know yer proper place, do you now? Is it ‘cause _daddy_ always takes care eh yer problems for you? Come here sweet thang, let me learn you a lesson, too!” Ian takes a breath and wobbles slightly, reaching out towards John with both hands curled into claws.

“You don’t know nothin’ boy! Ain’t you never seen a _berdache_ afore? This is his whole purpose in life!” More blood spills from his lips as Ian lunges for John but John, even exhausted, isn’t wounded or enraged beyond reason so he’s faster. Ian falls with his upper body hanging out of the train car. John places one foot on the big man’s rear end and shoves with all of his remaining strength. Ian flails uselessly as his body plummets towards the ground.

John slides the door closed and rushes to his friend. He drops to his knees and pulls Sherlock’s clothes back onto him as fast as possible. He sits down with his back to the wall and drags Sherlock to him. His hands are no longer shaking as he yanks open his coat and settles Sherlock’s torso onto his chest. He digs in his coat pocket for the extra pair of socks he forgot to put into his saddle bags. Very carefully, John slides the woolen socks over Sherlock’s deathly cold hands. He carefully runs his fingers over Sherlock’s skull, looking for any lasting damage. John’s heart is heavy with the realization that he has just taken another man’s life. Sherlock is safe. He draws his coat around them both and holds Sherlock close to him. It’s the best he can do and they ride out the night this way, sharing body heat on a frigid westbound train that neither of them have a ticket to ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't leave you all hanging!


	8. Questions

Shadows and light play through Sherlock’s dreams. He sees dark things in his mind, boogey men hanging from tall trees, their legs kicking as the last of the life in them fades. Though their faces are covered with sacks, he can still see their manic grins in death from their slit throats. He cries out, his hands scrabbling for a hold on anything, expecting there to be _nothing_. There is something, and he grabs and holds on tight. His sore legs beat against the floor of the train car, kicking up dust motes that are ignorant of the pain they bear witness to, there on the floor of the westbound train.

A soft voice just above his head whispers calming little nothings. Not his mother. Who then? He surges upward through the ocean of his dreams, fighting to break the surface of the suffocating water that isn’t water at all but a pressure on his mouth, a hand over his nose, he kicks harder, straining for the surface…his head breaks through and his whole body drops backward, fighting for breath. Something warm around his waist, more soft words dropped into his ear. His eyes slip closed and this time he slumbers in a dreamless world.

~0o0~

While Sherlock fights his demons, John talks to him. His voice, though not as deep in register as Sherlock’s, is still enough to calm the fevered mind. John talks for hours. He tells Sherlock about the college he attended to learn medicine. He talks about the man that he shared a home with there, in the city. He opens up about the pain when the man walked out on him and then his mother’s death. He tells Sherlock about the books he’s read. He is recounting a little story by Benjamin Franklin when Sherlock begins to stir and wake.

“…my enemy, for you would not only torment my body to death…” John has his eyes closed and his head resting against the wall of the train car. He thinks fondly of the little passage whereby Franklin’s gout is admonishing him for his lack of exercise. Under the circumstances, though, it’s possible that the statement could apply to Sherlock’s present condition.

The man in question moves against John’s chest, at first rubbing at his eyes and then very slowly turning to face John. As he has been the past few months, John is forever captivated by those green eyes. John can see clearly that the physical pain is beginning to diminish. He leans down and kisses Sherlock’s mouth, searching for a connection that he believed lost. The younger man pushes upward towards John’s face and answers those questions with his lips, tongue and teeth. Their kiss is passionate yet reserved; John can almost feel the pain in Sherlock’s head. He tentatively caresses the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock pulls away and sighs, dropping his head back to John’s chest, his ear over John’s heart.

John is aware of everything as if the cold is a whetstone to his senses. He can hear every breath that the man lying against him takes; he is happy _not_ to hear any wheezing. He hears plainly the _click clack_ of the train’s wheels against the track. He has listened to the whistle give its mournful cry more times in the last hours; he’s been unable to keep track.

Sherlock is holding his hands up in front of his face, studying the rough woolen socks that adorn them. His fingers are sore, but the feeling of pins and needles in them proves that he did not get frostbite. Any other time and John would find the situation absolutely humorous. John reaches out to pull them off but Sherlock yanks his hands just out of reach. His little chuckle vibrates through his body and resonates off of John’s chest. John pulls his coat tighter about the two of them, though the air in the train car has warmed up just a bit.

“Thank you.” It is a simple statement, but within it John finds gratitude for following Sherlock and being there in the midst of a dangerous situation. He is quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“Sherlock, will you tell me something?” Sherlock’s lean body is a warm blanket against him. John’s stomach growls loudly. He searches in a coat pocket and pulls out a little paper-wrapped package. Some of Jessie’s beef jerky. He found it sometime while Sherlock was out. He doesn’t remember putting it there, perhaps she stuck it in on him while he was eating the scrambled eggs…god. How long _has_ it actually been? He pulls a slice away from the paper and hands it down to Sherlock.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock answers as he holds up a hand. John deftly removes the sock, trades it for the slice of jerky. The stuff is tough but flavorful and Sherlock savors it against his tongue before chewing.

“Would you mind explaining to me what a _berdache_ is?” Sherlock stiffens almost imperceptibly against John. He speaks, but his answer is yet another question.

“Where?”

“Keller. He called you that twice. Once that day at the stockyard and then just before…” John lets his thoughts trail off. He’s not sure of the wisdom of bringing up such a volatile experience so soon.

Sherlock’s eyes find the hunting knife lying on the floor. He carefully notes the rust-red color of dried blood against the silver of the blade. “You got him.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” John feels absolutely no need to add any more details at present. The threat was neutralized and he is _not_ the least bit sorry; especially because he can feel the warmth of life against his own body. A life he had almost lost.

“A _berdache_ is a person who carries two spirits within themselves. A female spirit and a male spirit; they do not conform to traditional gender roles within the tribe.”

“Is that why you left?” John asks in a reserved voice.

“No. It was…acceptable. It was my mother’s refusal to be bound to…someone who wanted her whom she did not love. They did not turn me out because of the sprits I carry within. They let me leave because of the spirit I carry _without_.”

John considers that for a moment, thinking of pale skin, high cheekbones and light-colored eyes. “Your father was a white man?”

“My cousin told you?”

“No. I never asked him. It is your story to tell. You said your mother had been murdered.”

“She was.” Sherlock’s statement seems final. John understands that he does not wish to discuss it. He nods. Sherlock turns around to face him again. He lays one palm against John’s chest and leans his body against the man. He wants to ask John about Jack and what happened after he ran from the house, but his tired mind finds solace in John’s body heat. John rests his chin against Sherlock’s forehead and holds him. Sherlock pulls his legs up as far as they will go and his exhausted body is lulled back to sleep by the sound of the metal wheels hitting the tracks.


	9. Helping Hands

By the time the train finally jerks and moans and whines to a complete stop, Sherlock is strong enough to stand up on his own. John slides open the door of the car into the darkness of early morning, midnight blue before the sunrise. John stands in the opening and scans the area. They seem to be at a train station. They have to get off the train and get moving before someone comes along looking for tickets. It would not do to be held in a jail cell before they can start for home, especially with any help so many hours away.

John turns back and assesses Sherlock carefully. The younger man moves stiffly but he is moving under his own power. John made him finish off the jerky not too long ago, so at least he’s got something in his system to be going on with. He looks down at the ground and hopes that he can make the jump without too much trouble. Brush runs alongside the track, he thinks he can aim for that; in the event that he loses his balance, it will be softer than the dirt.

“Let me jump first and then I’ll wait on you.” John calls out quietly, even so his voice echoes slightly in the deep blue of their surroundings. It’s now or never. He takes a deep breath and notes that the air here is chilly, but not as cold as it was six hours ago. There is also no snow. He has no idea where they are. One more breath and he jumps.

Through some miracle, John lands on his feet and his knees only buckle slightly. He looks both ways, searching for movement anywhere near the train and reaches up to partially catch, partially hold onto Sherlock. Sherlock opts not to jump but stretches his long body towards the ground, his butt scooting firmly on the wooden boards; finally balancing on the toe of one boot. John grips his upper arms to be sure of a careful landing. Once they are both safely on the ground, they crouch down and move as far and as far away from the tracks as possible. Eventually they find a well-worn trail and follow it up a rise. It takes them out to a road that is little more than a goat path. Sherlock stands in the center of it and closes his eyes and titling his head back; calmly getting his bearings as the strengthening rays of the morning sun flicker across his face. He holds both arms out from his sides, palms outward.

John cannot help but stop and admire this wonderful creature which seems made of both earth and fire at the same time. Tendrils of golden light reach out to gently fondle his raven hair, setting it aflame. His pale skin takes borrows the morning sun and takes on a golden sheen. The trees around them are bright with autumn colors. The pine trees blaze green. Sherlock opens his eyes and he appears to be looking right into the sunrise. There is something so overtly _sacred_ about his movements.

John is drawn closer to Sherlock like a moth to the flame. They gaze at each other; John reaches for Sherlock’s arms and hauls him in close. When Sherlock leans down to kiss him, his lips are soft and warm from the loving touch of the dawn on his face. John is unsure as to what he just witnessed and he feels like he has been touched by something otherworldly. A cool wind blows around them, carefully reminding them that there is still danger about. They pull apart gently.

“Which way?” John asks, his voice barely cracking above a whisper on the wind. The call of home is strong; however, it would be dangerous and stupid to even attempt it without proper supplies.

“West.” Sherlock’s voice is strong and sure. He spins a little on his heels and strikes out in that direction. John nods and follows him, the sight of gold skin and sea-green eyes dancing at the front of his mind.

~0o0~

They walk for an hour before they begin to see civilization in any form. The majority of it is barbed wire and the occasional herd of rangy Longhorns; there is the occasional white or brown clapboard ranch house peeking out at them among the open fields. The hard packed dirt under their feet serves to tire out lean muscle and make their feet ache. Sometimes they reach out for each other’s hand while they walk, other times they are just side-by-side, occasionally bumping arms. It doesn’t matter, because each one is helping the other push forward. The sun rises at their backs; some time ago Sherlock pulled the wool socks off of his feet and stuffed them into his blue jean pockets. John is impressed with Sherlock’s endurance. For everything they have been through in the past day and a half, it seems like the younger man would literally just pass out. It’s good, though, they can do this together.

As their shadows stretch out ahead of them they wander into a very small town. John stops to read a tiny sign that gives the local population a number of fifty. That’s been crossed out and someone has written “43” underneath it. Sherlock appears to know his way and so leads them past a dumpy saloon, a rather ramshackle one-room schoolhouse and a jail with a wrap-around porch.

John checks out the jail as they go by it, it’s not very big, probably only has one cell. It is the best-kept building they have seen by far. He is studying the bluish grey rocks that it was built with when the brown wooden door opens. A rather well-built man wearing a silver star on his chest steps out onto the little porch. His eyes follow them as he lights a corncob pipe with a match that he struck against one of the rails. He shakes the match out, drops it on the porch and then steps on it.

“Sherlock? Sherlock Homes?” The man calls out. Sherlock stops in mid-step and abruptly turns toward the voice. John manages to keep himself from crashing into his companion, only just. He watches as the man stomps off the porch and heads in their direction. Inside his head, he counts the measly five dollars in his pocket that he’s managed to hold onto since that autumn. He wonders if it would be enough to pay a ticket for loitering or causing trouble or just anything that they are about to be charged with…hold on. That man just called Sherlock by his _name_. John’s drawn up short. He has no idea what’s going to happen next.

The sheriff stomps over to them and slams one very large hand against Sherlock’s back. To his credit, Sherlock only winces a little bit and does not fall over. He gives the big man a shy smile which absolutely does _not_ in turn almost knock John off of his own feet.

“Sherlock, where you been, boy?” The sheriff tucks his hands into the pockets of his vest. A silver watch chain hangs from one of them. Sunlight glances off of the links. It is a well-cared for heirloom. The sheriff smiles at them good naturedly from behind a thick waxed mustache of mixed red and brown hair.

“Sheriff Moore, sir, this is my friend, John Watson. I’ve been working for his father, Jack.” The sheriff holds one of his meaty paws out to John. John shakes it, proud of himself for not flinching and gripping the huge fingers right back.

“Well, then, you boys fancy a coffee this morning? Then you can fill me in on all the details.” John decides right then and there that Sheriff Moore is a shrewd man indeed.

He leads them up the stairs and into the jail. John has guessed correctly: there is only one cell. Above them, the ceiling is open and crossed by several large timbers. A barn owl hoots at them lazily from one of them. A massive oak desk takes up most of the space in the rest of the room. John and Sherlock sit down in the two chairs in front of the desk while the sheriff moves over to an old but clean pot-bellied stove and lifts a rather fancy silver coffee pot off the top of it. The fire inside the stove is kept low and the room is comfortable enough for John to pull off his coat. Sheriff Moore holds out a hand for John’s coat and hangs it on a hook next to the door. He pulls three cups out of one of his desk drawers and pours coffee into them.

“I apologize for not having any sugar right now. General store doesn’t open for another…” he tugs on the watch chain and flips open the silver face with a single movement of his wrist. “…half hour.” Once again, John thinks about his five dollars. He hopes it will be enough to get Sherlock a coat, even a light one, and possibly a bit of food for the road. It’s never going to be enough to get a horse, let alone two.

John takes a sip of his coffee. The stuff is awful. Like drinking stewed boot leather. He nods politely and sets the cup on the edge of the desk nearest him. Sherlock downs the stuff like he has no taste buds, making John feel guilty for not having made better provisions for food. It’s literally been hours since either of them have had a drink. He thinks better of it and picks up the cup as Sheriff Moore eases himself into the chair behind the desk. He gives John and curious look.

“Sherlock, I’m real sorry about your momma.” Sherlock’s eyes open wide and then narrow slightly. The sheriff notes the reaction. He switches tactics. “Tell me where you have been.” It’s a polite order, but an order nonetheless. Sherlock sums up the last few months, leaving out only the intimate details of his and John’s relationship. He calls John alternately his “companion” or “friend.” John is proud to be either one of those things.

Sheriff Moore listens, making the right noises in the right places. He pours himself another cup of coffee, taking a sip as Sherlock completes his tale. “When John found me, I was almost completely unconscious, Sheriff. I owe him my life.” Somehow Sherlock has skimmed over the real reason why he ran from the Watson home, mentioning only that his memories had overwhelmed him. John sips the horrible coffee and considers that most of that statement is the truth.

“Thank you, John Watson.” Sheriff Moore holds John’s gaze for a moment. John gets the impression that the sheriff is well-aware of the details Sherlock left out of his story. They are skirting dangerous territory here. John knows the laws, the punishments. He also knows men like his father’s friend, Sheriff Lestrade, who believe in a “live and let live” maxim. The sheriff’s eyes move from John to Sherlock and back to John. A huge weight that John wasn’t even aware that he was carrying moves off of his chest.

“You going home, Sherlock? Seems to be the only reason you’d come back this way.” Sheriff Moore inquires.

“Yes sir. I am not staying. There are some things I need to finish before I can move on. We could use a little help. You know when I come back this way I can repay you in kind.” Sherlock punctuates his sentence with the empty coffee cup.

“I can do that. I figure you two came in on the train. Seein’ that neither of you were prepared for travelin’, I can loan you a couple of mounts until you can getcher hands on a couple of them Indian ponies.” The Sheriff gives the young man a genuine smile. Apparently Sherlock’s prowess with horses is well known in these parts. “Let’s go down and grab some lunch first. I’ll treat.”

~0o0~

Lunch consists of a slab of spit-roasted venison, boiled carrots, potatoes and gravy. It’s topped off with large slices of chocolate cake for the three of them. Ms. Eileen, the owner of the general store, serves them happily at a little table in her front window.

Her shop carries dry goods, sundries, and material for making clothing. It also boasts a little sweets counter. The chocolate cake sits in a place of pride: right in the center of the table in the window directly under her name. Ms. Eileen is a woman in her mid-thirties, a little thick through the middle and only about five foot tall. Her red hair is perched on her crown in a bun that looks to John like it’s going to give up the ghost at any second. Her face is open and friendly. Intelligent brown eyes look out from a round face. Her cheeks are faintly pink and her hands are scrubbed clean. She fusses over them, especially Sherlock, whom she has apparently known since before he could walk.

“He could ride them ponies, I’ll tell you what! His momma used to bring him down here and that woman, she’d walk the whole way just so that boy could be proud on those beasties by himself.” Sherlock doesn’t say much about these memories; he’s really too busy stuffing his face. John is quietly amused. He loses his train of thought for a little while as he sits thinking about a younger Sherlock to the drone of Eileen’s tale spinning.

Ms. Eileen rushes back and forth from the front widow to the back of her shop. The door behind the cash register leads to a tiny one-room apartment with a kitchen and a bed. They know all this because Eileen tells them. She clears the table at speed and whisks the dishes away. When she returns she places two water bladders and a man’s overcoat in front of them. For once she is silent as if daring any of the men to argue with her. John reaches into his pocket and draws out the crumpled bills he’s been hanging onto all this time.

Eileen makes a snorting noise in the back of her throat. John looks up at her, bewildered. “Ma’am.” She puts her hands on her hips, her brown eyes frosty.

“Boy yer an idiot.” Sherlock makes his own little snort of amusement at Eileen’s words. John is just lost.

She points at the grubby bills in his pocket. “I don’t want yer money, Mr. Watson. Sherlock helped me get by when I first got into town. He trained a couple of mules for me that I turned around and sold with enough profit to buy two months worth of supplies and sundries. ‘twas his idea to put the table in the window. He never asked me for so much as a drink awater. Put yer money away for something important, Mr. Watson. Any friend of Sherlock’s is a friend of mine.” Well, that’s him told, then. Sheriff Moore grins at them and slaps John on the back. He gets the impression that Sheriff Moore spends more time with Ms. Eileen than he does at the jail. He can’t really blame him; her cooking easily rivals his sister’s.

“Ms. Eileen, I need to get word to my father about our whereabouts. Is there a scrap of paper around I could scribble on?” She bustles around for a moment and produces several sheets of paper, an envelope and a stubby pencil. John writes his short note out, folds the paper into the envelope and addresses it. “Can I at least pay for the stamp?”

Ms. Eileen playfully pats his arm, her long gingham skirt swishing with the motion. “Nope. It can go out with my order tomorrow.” She lays his letter against her cash register, where there is a couple more. They pass the afternoon at the general store, regaling John with all kinds of stories about a younger ruffian named Sherlock.


	10. Silent Declarations

By mid-afternoon they are well on their way to Sherlock’s birthplace. Sheriff Moore has lent them a couple of sturdy horses; Eileen added saddle bags full of provisions from her store. They are riding comfortably next to each other, only the occasional snort from a horse interrupting their meditations. There are so many things they need to say to each other hanging in the air between them; the time just never seems to be right.

John studies the countryside. There are still colorful trees all around, though the leaves are starting to drop off of them. He’s never been this far west before and he can’t help but draw comparisons between what he sees in front of them and the landscape at home are very different. The land here is arid and dry. They seem to be moving upward at a gentle pace.

At one point they cross a dead river, the horses’ plodding through the sandbar easily. The buckskin gelding that John is riding shies towards one side; Sherlock’s horse snorts and moves the same direction. A trio of golden brown Pronghorns goes bounding past. They watch the antelope until they are way off in the haze on the horizon. Soon afterward, they begin climbing upward into a rocky butte, the sun setting in a blaze of purples, oranges, and pinks in front of them. They stand up in their stirrups to allow the horses to concentrate on moving their own weight when as the ground becomes steeper.

The trail narrows and Sherlock takes the lead. As he has all day, John can’t help but study his companion. Sherlock rides easily, his lean hips swaying with the movement of his mount. John closes his eyes and fights back a heavy wave of desire. He has always tried to be patient with his younger lover; it’s getting more difficult with each passing day. It isn’t just the need for physical release, but the need to give love as well as receive it. He works hard to turn his mind in another direction.

The ground appears to be flattening out. Without any warning they find themselves in a secluded valley with a creek running through it. John assumes that the little creek is fed from the hills around them. Tiny white flowers dot the green grass. It’s almost as if they had gone back to spring, even though the air is brisk.

Sherlock dismounts gracefully. He smiles up at John and pulls the roll of material from behind his saddle. John helps him and they soon have a make-shift tent set up. In no more time than that, they’ve got a little cooking fire started. It’s not home, but it will get them through the night. Just before dark, Sherlock disappears into the trees. John watches him and notes the glimmer of a blade pulled from a boot.

John is sitting on the ground with his saddle at his back stirring a little tin pot of beans when Sherlock returns with a handful of dried sticks for the fire and a freshly killed rabbit. John takes the animal and the knife and makes short work of it; after skinning it he skewers it over the fire.

“Usually I do not stop overnight taking this trip.” Sherlock allows while the watch the rabbit roast.

“Tonight is different.” John states.

“I want you to understand what you are going to see, John. My people…rather, my mother’s people are very poor. They still hold on to many of the old ways.”

John isn’t sure which way to go with that information, so he just listens.

“I explained to you what a _berdache_ is.” Sherlock pauses and looks towards John in the gloom. His face is lit only by the flames. Their eyes meet for a second. John dips his chin. “Though we are not staying long, they may request of me to sing tomorrow night. It is an honor; however, I will decline if it would make you uncomfortable in any way. I only ask because I am going back to say goodbye to them.”

“You are going back east with me?”

“If you will have me.” John almost inhales his tongue when Sherlock’s green eyes catch a glint of the flames.

They reach for each other, there beside the fire out in the open, allowing everything unsaid to step back for a time. Their kisses are soft at first then passionate and slow. They are finally alone and each man decides to rejoice in the other’s body. By some unspoken agreement they move towards the little tent, a large piece of canvas stretched over two poles they’ve wedged into the ground. They don’t have bedrolls, but the ground is soft enough. John runs his hands down Sherlock’s chest, bringing them back up as he slowly peels off his shirt. The lean muscles that John has studied from afar and only briefly touched are now like satin under his fingers. He presses his teeth and lips to each rib. Sherlock shivers slightly and wraps his arms around his lover. He reaches down for one of John’s hands and licks a dripping wet stripe across it. John takes the hint and unbuttons Sherlock’s blue jeans, gently freeing his erection. John stops long enough to appreciate the dripping cock in front of him and moves his mouth to the head, swirling his tongue along the shaft. With his free hand he strokes Sherlock slowly, gathering moisture on his fingers.

Sherlock arches his back and an almost-contained groan passes through his lips when John breaches his hot opening with a single finger. This is the farthest they have come and for John there is no turning back. John is gentle and slow until his lover starts pushing into his hand; he adds a second finger, carefully stretching him while still stroking his cock with the other hand. John kisses the head and listens to Sherlock’s panting. Slowly he removes his fingers and leans over Sherlock, supporting himself on hands placed on either side of Sherlock’s face. John can only barely see his lover’s eyes and he wonders if Sherlock would show the same need that he knows is displayed in his own. The heat coming off of the body underneath him is a miracle in its own right. He wants to be even closer.

John lines himself up carefully. He pulls Sherlock’s legs up around his hips and Sherlock clamps them there, his strong thighs and calves holding tightly. John pushes into Sherlock slowly, each careful movement almost agony. Sherlock’s legs tighten and his breathing comes faster. He whispers that he is ready and John takes a few shallow strokes before snapping his hips. He reaches down and grips Sherlock’s legs hard, right above the knees, holding him in place. It’s all over very soon; months of waiting and holding back finally ending with the power of a summer thunderstorm. They lie together, happy to allow those emotions and satisfied needs to wash over them slowly. With their arms tightly wound around each other, they ride into sleep on the primal drums of one another’s heartbeats.

The rabbit burns to crisp as the fire dies slowly, given like a thankful sacrifice to any god that will accept it.

~0o0~

The next morning they bathe in the little creek. They share smiles when Sherlock points out the overcooked rabbit. He removes it from the spit and lays it out on a flat rock, kneeling down and adding a small handful of the little white flowers. For some reason he cannot identify, John is touched. He brushes Sherlock’s shoulder as he walks past him to refill their water bags.

They tack the horses up, John helping Sherlock re-roll the tent and replace it behind his saddle. In a little less than an hour, they are once again on the move. Sherlock allowed that it won’t take them long to get to the reservation. John finds himself a little bit excited to see it, after all it’s the place that produced this fine man who has stolen his heart.


	11. Reflection

The morning after her brother saves the life of his lover, Jessie Watson serves her father and her fiancé breakfast in a less than quiet manner. Both men are attempting to ignore the thunking sounds of earth ware dishes and eating utensils slamming against the old wood of the dining table. They chalk it up and consider that she is just overly concerned about her brother. In no uncertain terms she let her father and Mike know just what she thought of allowing John just to “ride off into the sunset” looking for Sherlock. She would have told them the night before, but they snuck in long after she had turned in.

She feels that she should have been with them that day. She also feels like her father could have done more to at least get John back _off_ the train, having Sherlock back would have just been a bonus. She admits that the young man has been awfully helpful around here as of late. Losing him would be a serious blow. (Of course, she will not learn the entire story until much later. After that, she’ll look back on her feelings and realize how selfish she’s being right now.)

Her father and fiancé feel exactly the opposite. In the instant that Jack decided to trust his son he felt an awful lot of self-imposed barriers fall by the wayside. The determined look on John’s face told him everything: this was something that his oldest child _needed_ to do and Jack was going to give him the space to do so. Jack decides that it’s time he starts treating his son like the _man_ that he is and not a child. After four months on the trail, he has seen firsthand the kind of man that John is growing to be: loyal, brave, and honest. As soon as he returns home; and Jack has no doubt that he will; they are going to sit down and have a long-overdue father-son talk. Jack decides that it doesn’t matter _who_ his children love and find to be happy with, just that they are happy in their lives.

Breakfast is strained, every one of Jessie’s movements abruptly punctuated by dishes clanking against the table each time one of the men bothers to ask her to _please_ pass them something. Mike keeps sneaking covert glances at her out of the sides of his eyes; this version of Jessie is surely an _intense_ one.

She stands breathing heavily with her hands on her hips, glaring at their backs as they retreat out the front door while pulling on their overcoats. That makes her angry, too: the fact that they prefer the cold weather to being in her with her! They should just stay put and let her yell at them. At least it would make her feel better. She doesn’t move when the heavy wooden front door opens wide enough to see the track that they dug through the snow. It leads from the house to the barn, around behind the house, to the outhouse. It’s been so cold that not much work is getting done outside at the moment. Besides feeding and bedding down the horses, there isn’t much to be done right now. Jessie isn’t stupid, she knows full well the only reason they left the house was to get away from her ire for a bit.

Jessie doesn’t move a muscle until after the door snaps shut. She is still for just a moment, then her face crumples and she drops into a chair. She rests her head on her arms and weeps silently. The idea that _anything_ could happen to her brother out there, wherever he has gotten himself, tears her heart in two. She’s the only one in their family who knew about the man in the city that he cohabited with. She never met him, though all of John’s letters from the time always seemed upbeat and genuinely content. He worked hard at his studies and seemed to be standing on the cusp of making a name for himself in medicine. When the man, whose name she refuses to say even in her own mind, up and left one day, she was as devastated by the news as if it had happened to her. Her brother had been different since he had been home. She knew that it wasn’t only their mother’s death that had affected him so.

It wasn’t really something they talked about, however, even amongst themselves. She and Mike had never discussed it. Jessie felt that if John wanted Mike to know these things that John would have given the information to his friend willingly. She knows that her fiancé is an open-minded individual and feels that he would not see John as anything different other than his friend and soon to be brother-in-law.

So that brings up thoughts of her nuptials that will take place in the spring. Tears threaten to start anew at the thought that her brother may not be back with her on that important day.

Jessie sniffs wearily. She wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands. She’s cried about this enough; crying sure isn’t helping the situation. She understands the reasons behind her father’s decision to not chase after her brother, though she really doesn’t like it. She considers that perhaps she should tell her dad about…that guy. No. Again, it’s really not her place. Back then her father might have been what? insulted? angry? that John didn’t fit the mold people were always shoving him into; now, though? They had all changed in the past few years; hell the entire world had changed since the War Between Brothers ended.

Jessie rubbed her face one more time and moved to clean up.  

~0o0~

Within the hour, Jessie has the kitchen in order. She is sitting in one of the chairs in the living room with an embroidery hoop in her lap. She’s got the fire stoked up a little, warding off the chill. Daylight streams through the front windows, making it easy to see the pattern she’s working on. Her demeanor was calm when Mike came back in the house knocking the snow off his boots in front of the door. She looks up as he is pulling his boots off. He gives her a worried little smile from across the room. She beams back at him.

Mike walks over and puts his arms around Jessie’s shoulders. He lays his cheek against her silky hair. “Are you alright, Jessie?” He asks.

Jessie closes her eyes and leans into Mike’s touch. “I think so.” She looks down at the eagle-and-arrows pattern that she’s been working on and pushes the needle through the material one more time before setting the whole thing on the side table. Mike takes her movement as an invitation and cups her face with one hand. He leans down and kisses her softly, enough to let her know that he is concerned and cares about how she feels.

She pulls back from him and sighs. “I wish I would have been there. I could have stopped him…” She blinks quickly, once again fighting tears.

“Jessie, listen to me.” Mike kneels down in front of her, both hands on her knees. “Jessie, your brother…”

“Is a sodomite. I’ve always known. He _is_ my brother; he _always will be_ my brother.” She gives him an intense look and he knows he better not step over the line that is drawn in her flinty eyes.

Mike is slightly taken aback at Jessie’s directness, but not surprised. He appreciates it, though, it’s easier to discuss such difficult subjects this way. “Yes. Jack and I are pretty sure that he and Sherlock are lovers.” Jessie nods but her eyes never leave Mike’s. She waits for the other boot to drop. She thinks:   _If Mike says anything bad about John, this engagement is off and he can go back to the hills from whence he came._ She crosses her arms and her legs and waits.

It doesn’t happen, though. Instead Mike drops his voice to a gentle lilt. “He’s in _love_ , Jessie. Your father is absolutely right, there would have been no stopping him.”

Jessie begins to interrupt. Mike places a finger against her lips. “No. Jessie. It’s your turn to listen. It is nothing different than I or your father would have done had the situation been different and it was you or your mother who had been in a bad way.”

Of course Jessie understands. She gives him and nod and he replaces the finger on her lips with his own mouth. They stay that way for a while, Jessie Watson considering how lucky she really is to be surrounded by so many good men; four of them to be exact.


	12. Bad Memories

Sherlock and John ride onto the reservation without fanfare. There aren’t many people about when they arrive so John doesn’t feel particularly rude to stare around a bit, taking in the land around them. The road they travel is not much more than a hard packed dirt trail barely wide enough for them to ride abreast. Looking down, John can make out footprints of humans and animals, including dogs, sheep and horses.

The land opens up around them save for clusters of a mix of tipis, some well-worn and patched Army issue tents that John figures were scrounged up at the end of the war, and even some small, rather boxy-shaped clapboard houses. A single whitewashed church stands off by itself, clusters of wildflowers and greenery growing in front of the door. No glass graces its empty windows. It seems a rather forlorn place to John.

The grass around them isn’t exactly green, not yellow either, but a color somewhere in between that speaks of chilly days and colder nights. There are rolling fields that stretch back as far as the eye can see, here and there dotted with trees and stumps; small, colorful herds of sheep and goats are mixed in with all of it. The scant few fences that separate the herds are rough hewn and double-railed but seem to be in good repair.

Sherlock leads them right up to one of the little houses. He stops and dismounts, silently stripping the saddle off of his mount. John hesitates, watching Sherlock’s deft movements, and then follows suit. He flattens out the hair on the buckskin’s back with his palm after lifting the saddle off. Sherlock leads his horse by the bridle around the side of the house to a gate of a small paddock that stands open. Just to one side of the paddock is a lean-to that will provide shelter for the next day if the horses want it. Sherlock scoots through the gate and turns the horse around, waiting until he’s completely stopped moving before taking the bridle off. The slight _ting_ of the bit gently striking horse’s teeth reaches John’s ears as the horse pulls back, spins and then gallops to the other end of the paddock. Sherlock shrugs the bridle around his shoulder where it hangs; the silver bit shines with a bit of saliva still clinging to it.

John also lets his mount go in the same manner, though the buckskin tends to be a little calmer about finally being loose than the other horse. He snorts at and then drops to the dry ground for a good roll, dust swirling up around him. Sherlock latches the gate, turning towards the paddock to study the horses as they kick up their heels and snort. He rests against the rails. John moves around behind him, a little unsure of their newly found intimacy.

“You can touch me, John.” Sherlock is still, his eyes following the horses’ movements as they play, watching for the first sign of lameness in either of them. John presses against Sherlock’s side, winding one arm around his narrow waist. John understands that it is difficult for Sherlock to be here and wants to offer a modicum of comfort. Sherlock leans into John’s warm body and they stay that way for a time. The horses finally settle down and drop their heads to the almost non-existent grass. The sound of their teeth cropping at the little shoots is relaxing to both men.

“Ah, our _berdache_ has returned.” An older man with weathered skin is approaching them, a hand raised in greeting. He stops a few paces away, politely allowing Sherlock the time to acknowledge him. Sherlock presses against the warm weight of John’s arm for a moment longer and then turns to face the man.

“Good afternoon, Louis.” He holds out one long hand and Louis grasps it in both of his own, pulling Sherlock in for a one-armed hug. The older man is dressed simply in worn trousers, a long tunic and beaded moccasins. His salt-and-pepper hair has been cut short recently, leaving a defined line between the light tan color of his scalp and darker tan of the skin on his face. He has kind brown eyes with wrinkles at the corners. He smiles as he lets Sherlock go, the movement causing his face to wrinkle even more. Sherlock gestures from Louis to John and back.

“Louis Black Eagle, this is John Watson, my companion.” John holds out a hand expecting a shake but instead finds himself in a similar hug. Louis nods and blesses John with a gap-toothed grin. John smiles back. There is something incredibly charismatic about this old man and John takes a liking to him immediately.

“Since you have arrived on a sing day, would you honor us tonight?” Louis asks the world at large. He is scanning the countryside, his eyes moving from the horses in the paddock and back. Sherlock politely thinks it over.

“I will leave in the morning. I am only here to gather a few items.”

Louis nods his head and gazes at Sherlock in understanding. He contemplates in silence for a moment, his fingers resting against his mouth. “Do you need your robes?”

“No. They have remained in my mother’s house.” Sherlock gestures towards said building. “Whom do we honor?”

“There are several new babies in the family.” It’s Sherlock’s turn to nod. He is now looking at Louis, though John notices that his gaze has turned inward. Louis claps him on the shoulder, which is a reach for the elderly man because Sherlock is a head taller, and shuffles off. He limps slightly on one leg. Sherlock notices John studying the old man as he his form grows smaller.

“It is an old injury, John, of no concern to us now. He fell from the rocks when he was much younger. He was attempting to pull the feather from the tail of an eagle. He reached up and grasped the tail feather at the very same time that the eagle spread its wings and pushed off into flight. The motion startled Louis and he fell to the ground. His leg was broken and healed slightly shorter than the other. He still has the feather.” Sherlock allows as they pick up their saddles.

He opens the front door and crosses the threshold, setting the saddle down vertically resting on the horn, allowing air to dry the backside of the leather. The saddle blanket is tossed used side up on top it; it is covered with hair. John sits the one that he has spent so many hours sitting in the last few days next to it. They drape the bridles over the saddles.

Sherlock moves through the house. There is a small sitting room with the smallest pot-bellied stove that John has ever seen; a tiny bedroom towards the back. A single stained feather mattress lays bare on a rusty frame. An old steamer trunk sits on the floor at the foot; Sherlock kneels down to it. There is a nightstand with an oil lamp next to the bed. Sherlock flips the latch on the old grey-green trunk and opens it. Inside is what seems to John to be a pile of skins; turns out that it is ceremonial clothing that Sherlock unfolds. John reaches out to touch them, finding the chocolate-colored leather very soft and supple. Some white embroidery runs down the length of the garment. John studies it closely and finds a pattern of tiny horse tracks. Sherlock lays it all out on the bed, carefully looking for any damage. He seems satisfied, regarding John quietly.

“Your mother made this.” John states.

“Yes. It was obvious that I was a two-spirit by the time I turned fifteen. It was not the way my mother envisioned my life, though she never tried to change me.” He fondled the leather with his fingers, remembering. John grasps Sherlock’s hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. He places a soft kiss on the palm. They move in closer, sharing the interlude and appreciating simply being.

It isn’t long before a slam and heavy tread of someone brings them out of their moment. Sherlock moves in front of John just as a large figure graces the doorway with his shadow. A very large man stands in front of them. He points an accusing finger in Sherlock’s direction. The skin on his face is tan, but only just. His hair is black and medium length. His brown eyes are piercing in their intense anger.

“ _You_.” Sherlock steps back slightly at the barely-controlled anger in the voice, forcing John away from the man. “You weren’t supposed to come back. You are done here.”

“No.” Sherlock answers the accusing tone quietly.

“No? How dare you!” The man takes a step towards them but Sherlock has already produced his knife from his boot. He holds it out in front of himself and the man steps back.

“I’ll be gone in the morning. Anything you need to say I have no desire to hear.” Sherlock spreads his legs and squares up his shoulders. John is trapped behind Sherlock in the tiny room. He makes to move over the bed. He climbs over the saggy mattress and catches the eye of the other man.

“Oh, what a fine day! Now there’s another one.” The big man turns his head in John’s direction, regarding him with a sneer. “We don’t want your kind here.” He speaks slowly as if to a child. John can feel his temper starting to rise.

“Leave him alone. I said we are not staying. Louis asked me to sing tonight and then I will be gone. All my debts to the family are repaid. I stayed away for a year.” Sherlock’s voice doesn’t get any louder, though it is strong in its intensity.

“You shouldn’t have come back at all, little brother.” The man sneers again.

“Half-brother.” Sherlock corrects. He makes as if to cross his arms, then remembers the knife. He drops it back into his boot.

The big man huffs at them. “Yeah, I thought so. Someone with a broken spirit is too weak to take me on.”

“You’re a fool, brother.”

“Try me. Coward.” Sherlock’s brother is now leaning into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is calm, acting as if this occurs every day. For all John knows, maybe it did. “I am not your brother.”

“Half-brother then." Sherlock actually has to look  _up_ at the other man to maintain eye contact.  "Of course, since you killed our mother that makes us _nothing_.” He puts a special hiss on the last word.

The big man’s nostrils flare and one of his hands twitches. “I did not kill her.” he states, without arguing about how they relate to each other.

“Liar.” Sherlock spits the words out. The bigger man rears back like a rattlesnake ready to strike. The knife reappears. Sherlock sets the point of it at his brother’s throat, otherwise he is still. The stout man makes as if to grab Sherlock by the throat and John coughs. He turns his ire towards John and then seems to realize that there’s a witness. He backs slowly out of the room. John doesn’t breathe again until he hears the door slam.


	13. Standing on Ceremony

John steps out of the bedroom into the tiny sitting room to check the door. The big guy is really gone.

“Sherlock, who was that?”

“Wallace, my half-brother.”

“I surmised as much. Why is he so…” John can’t find the right words for a moment.

“Angry? Horrible? Huge?” Sherlock helpfully supplies as he slips on the ceremonial robes. He has pulled off his shirt but left his blue jeans and boots on underneath; the robes hang almost to his ankles. He really doesn’t want to talk about Wallace. He wants to go to the sing and he wants to get out of here.

“Yes.” John can’t keep his eyes off of Sherlock, which is becoming a normal state of being for him; the way the fringes that lie alongside the edges of the leather move _with_ Sherlock as he sits down on a wooden chair and pulls his boots off is just _something_. John is really hoping is brain is going to catch up to the rest of him soon. Sherlock gives him a sweet little wink and then stands up and slides his blue jeans off from underneath the robes.

Sherlock pivots on his bare heels causing the fringe to fly about; it almost looks like he’s standing outside in the wind. John once again finds himself watching the young man stalk into the bedroom. He glances outside the window and realizes that evening is creeping upon them quickly. He follows Sherlock into the bedroom where he is rummaging around getting something from the bottom of the trunk.

“John, would you light the lamp? There are matches in the little drawer there.” John opens the single drawer on the nightstand and takes one of the matches that are loose in the bottom of it. He pops the glass cover off the base and shakes it then he pulls up the wick a little. He strikes it on the metal bed frame and grimaces a little at the smell of phosphorus. John then lights the wick, turns it back down and replaces the glass cover.

Sherlock is standing up again with his hands full of little pots. He lays out the pots across the old mattress and slides a small mirror out of the bottom of the trunk.

“Could you sit there, please?” John sits where Sherlock indicates. Sherlock hands him the mirror and sets to opening the little pots. Inside are three different colors of face paint: red, white and ocher. He dips a finger into the red and turns towards the mirror, drawing an inverted “V” from his forehead to his eyebrows. He runs the red color down the center of his face to his chin and across his cheeks. He then outlines the red across his cheeks in white; the ocher goes on his eyelids. He closes the little pots and tosses them back into the trunk. In the dying light of the evening, Sherlock’s face now seems to glow. His green eyes are a stark contrast to the paint on his face. He takes both hands and runs them up underneath his hair, causing it just stand up off of his neck. He’s kept it shorter the last year or so and it’s got a natural curl to it that is just coming out.

Sherlock shimmies through the dim light from the lamp and John is mesmerized. He’ll seriously be beside himself all night if everyone is dressed this way. Sherlock leaves the room; John uses the few moments he’s gone to compose himself.

~0o0~

Sherlock leaves John alone at the edge of the dancing grounds. There are split logs on the ground around a well-trampled center. John takes a seat on the edge of one of the logs. People start to filter in as the sky changes from gold to pink to azure. Louis pats John’s shoulder as he walks by, a small bundling of kindling in his hands. He drops them in the middle of a ring of stones and stands back when another man comes over to light them. The fire glows as it spreads from the kindling to the much larger log underneath. Within seconds the bigger log is blazing red. John realizes that the bottom log sits in a bed of ashes that are likely kept stoked.

As other people find their seats, a few of them add wood to the fire: sometimes little sticks, other times what appears to be branches of various trees. As each thing is added, sometimes the flames dance into different colors. John searches for Sherlock, but he is currently out of sight.

When the drums begin the people fall into a respectful silence. John can hear the heartbeat of the earth. Everything else falls away from his awareness and he sways where he sits. Just behind the fire, Louis Black Eagle raises his arms and calls out in his own language. John cannot understand the words but he understands their meaning. It is a joyful sound, glad tidings. John can feel that he’s starting to get a little heady from whatever is burning in the fire, but it is a good feeling to be one with nature. It’s fine. It’s all fine. He relaxes a little into himself and without moving, walks with the new parents who bring their babies up for a blessing. He is each child that will walk in harmony with their surroundings. He will always feel the pull on his heart to _come home_.

John shakes his head back and forth. It’s like moving through a very warm body of water. He smiles at the new parents, taking note of their beautiful ceremonial clothes. They are so happy…

The drums change their rhythm. All around there is the sound of water lilies and reeds in a quiet pond in the playing of the wooden flutes. The drums around the circle draw him in with each beat. It’s getting stronger. John fights the spinning feeling, but only for a moment. There is a strong hand on his arm and he is grounded; he can feel the rough wood underneath his seat and his feet are planted firmly. He turns toward the source of the strength to find a tiny older woman smiling up at him. He feels like he’s been accepted. She pats his thigh but doesn’t move away. Someone whispers to him that the dancers are starting.

Presently, John is aware the tiny fire is now a roaring blaze. Louis has appeared on John’s other side, quietly asking him to move over a bit by pushing against John’s legs with his own. John is more than happy to accommodate him. Louis is such a wonderful man. He seems to truly care about John’s beautiful lover. The drums grow louder, powerful, uplifting. John feels like he could open his wings and catch the drifts and just fly…

A strong hand squeezes his thigh and another one squeezes his arm. Again, the whisper and then everything falls silent. It is truly darkness now; the dancing flames light up the entire circle. Dancers run in from all sides; they are laughing and hollering and celebrating life. They are clad only in loincloths. Some hold shields while others shake sticks with feathers tied to them. John is floating, his soul caught in a fist. The drums begin again, this time with the fervor of a summer thunderstorm. The flutes are hauntingly melodic. All of his attention is drawn to the dancers who bow their heads, bend at the waist and then raise up again as they move about the circle. They are chanting in their own language and John does not understand. He doesn’t need to. There is a strong crescendo of drums and then Sherlock steps into the firelight out of the surrounding darkness.

Once again, the music completely stops. The dancers move in a slow circle around him. As each dancer walks past they reach out to touch him: his clothes, his hair, his hands, his cheek. John is impressed with the sheer intimacy of it all. The drums start up, slower, calmer this time. The dancers continue to move around their _berdache_ , giving poor tripping John glances of his lover in between their movements. He doesn’t realize until Sherlock stands to his full height that the young man had been bent over. He raises both hands and the dancers literally fall to the ground. The drummers beat out a new rhythm with their hands.

Louis moves to stand next to Sherlock. He holds one of the raised hands in his own. Again, he addresses the crowd in his own language. Sherlock looks right at John. John can feel his spirit soar and is unaware of when the music changes again. Sherlock begins to move around in his own circle within the larger one. As he moves, the firelight touches his face like a lover, the different colors of his face paint changing within the shadows.

Then he opens his mouth and starts to chant. The strong drumbeat is back. Some of the people are chanting back at him quietly, just a simple _Ayy-yah, ayy-yah._ Surprising to John most of all is not the lyrical grace of the carrying baritone of Sherlock’s voice, but the fact that he chooses to sing the lyrics in English. John feels a strong arm wrap around his back just before he goes completely boneless.

Sherlock opens his arms wide as he sings, still moving around the circle.

_We are all the dancers_

_As we turn around the sun_

_Our stars above us_

_Always bring us home_

_Listen children to the stars_

_When they call out to you_

_No matter the number of your steps_

_They will bring you home_

_Calling, calling to you_

_Know you are ne’er alone_

_Wherever you can see them_

_They will guide you home_

_You will forever know my spirit_

_I have will have forgiveness_

_When the stars_

_Will be my home._

By the last line there are tears running through the paint on Sherlock’s face. John is pulled up by the music like a puppeteer pulls a marionette’s strings. Several of the people gathered give each other looks of knowing as he passes into the circle. Louis and his wife stand together, their shoulders touching above their linked hands, and watch as John approaches the _berdache_. He may be unaware with part of his mind, but they know that he is making a choice. Louis feels it is a good choice and does nothing to interfere.

John cannot help himself. Suddenly he is just _there_ with his arms wrapped around Sherlock and Sherlock is bending toward him and now his head is on his shoulder. They drop to the ground and remain locked in each other’s embrace until they are awoken by the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tribal Chant: all original lyrics by yours truly. If you would like to see my inspiration, pull up "Sacred Spirit Drums" on you tube. Listen and re-read and you'll see what I was listening to while I composed this chapter.   
> ETA: I had a PM about this chapter recently, and no, I am not offended at all! I am glad that you took the time to write to me! I was trying to show that John is being mentally and physically affected by the various *herbs* and things that were added to the fire. The dances can be very intense as well as beautiful. The idea for Sherlock's face painting came from a painting by Caitlin called the "dance of the berdache." I use the term here in both its connotations: both negative and positive.


	14. Unheeded Warnings

The whiteness of the early light reaches out to two men huddled on the ground in the center of the sacred circle. Smoldering ash is piled in a smaller ring of stones, tiny wisps of smoke occasionally dancing in the air. The soft touch of the loving light caresses cheeks grown cold in the air of night. The world around them is placid, peacefully content. John opens his eyes and is somewhat amused to see that sometime after the emotionally charged dance someone draped a heavy, scratchy blanket over their sleeping bodies. It would seem that sleeping on the ground all night would be an uncomfortable venture; perhaps all the feet pounding against the ground here has softened it up a bit.

He takes a deep breath of the chilly air and realizes that he has a slight headache similar to the one you get after having one too many shots of strong amber whiskey the night before. John remembers very little of the previous night. He rolls his shoulders and attempts to extract himself from the vise of the long arms and legs of a completely relaxed Sherlock. As John studies the younger man’s face he notes the clear tracks made through the paint on his face under his eyes by falling tears. He touches Sherlock’s face softly, drawing a line through the red and white paint on his cheek. The paint is smudged in several places and certainly looks quite garish in the new light.

With the feathery touch of John’s fingers, Sherlock opens his eyes. John actually gasps when pictures of the night before flash through his mind as he stares into the bright green irises. He remembers vividly Sherlock standing tall among the dancers and leans in to kiss him deeply. Sherlock returns the kiss, pulling John even closer to him. There’s nothing for it, he is as overwhelmed by the kiss this morning as he was by the sheer power emanating from Sherlock last night. They are getting more passionate as the hues of light around them become copper and then gold; John’s hands around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s fingers splayed on John’s back, their hips grinding in such pleasurable torment under the blanket. John wonders if Sherlock is as aware of the ground underneath them and the ever-bluing sky above them as he is.

John gets the feeling he his being watched. He pulls away slightly and raises himself on his arms to get a better look. Sherlock makes an irritated little growl and closes his eyes. He looks content and beautiful.

Louis is sitting placidly on one of the benches on the outside of the circle casually smoking a long pipe and staring into the sky. After a moment of polite pretending that he isn’t interrupting something, he turns towards them with a smile.

“Love makes everything brighter. Even the wintry dawn is a blessing for another day.” He says cryptically, hiding a little smirk behind the mouthpiece of his pipe.

John cocks an eyebrow. Sherlock makes a little laughing noise underneath him and pats his behind with one hand. Louis doesn’t miss the way the blanket moves right over John’s rear and he follows the movement with his eyes, which sparkle between the lazily drifting lines of gray smoke from his pipe.

“It was a good sing.” He says to them as he walks around to drop down on the ground beside Sherlock as if it’s all an everyday occurrence. He grunts a little, adjusting his brown robes around his legs.  

John moves over and they both sit up. Sherlock’s hair is a bit on the wild side, sticking up at the back and smeared with dabs of paint here and there. For a second, John considers what it would like if Sherlock wore it in the style of many of the other young men that he has seen on the reservation: a long black braid down his back. His attention swings back to Sherlock; he notes that something about the younger man has changed: perhaps it was the emotions that had been locked in for so long; perhaps the dance was cathartic.

Sherlock rubs his face with his palms causing bits of the paint to flake off. As the flakes fall into his lap, he follows them with his eyes. He contemplates them before speaking.

“May we bathe?” He asks permission as if he is a stranger. Perhaps now, he is.

“Of course, of course.” Louis chuckles. “Afterward, a meal at our table?”

“John?” Sherlock asks. The implication of partnership is clear even in that single word.

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Black Eagle.” John agrees for both of them.

“Good then.” Louis struggles to get to his feet; John stands quickly and holds out a hand to the old man. Louis thanks him and pats his shoulder lightly; suddenly John is reminded of the feeling of a strong arm around his shoulders holding him up against the powerful tide of heart beating drums and soulful flutes. He shakes his head and notices the little look Louis gives him before the old man winks and totters away.

“Well, then. We must get moving.” In true fashion, Sherlock does not voice his opinions on anything that happened last night. Perhaps John will remember to ask him about it when he remembers to tell him about the conversation he had with Jack.

~0o0~

John hopes that perhaps they will have time to talk while bathing. He is wrong. Oh so wrong. The clear water in the creek is so cold that by the time he’s done rinsing the sweat off his body he’s freezing and hauling his ass back to his clothes. Sherlock actually laughs at him, having endured this sort of thing for much of his life. He is on his knees in the water scrubbing the blood red paint off of his face with a white (now pinkish) cheese cloth. He tells John that’s its slower going after the stuff has set on your skin all night; and when he glances at the guilty look on his lover’s face tells him in no uncertain terms he would never have it any other way.

John watches him a little, warmer now that he’s back in his blue jeans and shirt. Louis has lent them both woven ponchos to ward off the chill when the day is cool but too warm for their fur coats. They will need those soon enough.

“Sherlock, is that the way the ceremony usually ends?” Sherlock doesn’t answer right away and John wonders if he is ignoring the question or perhaps doesn’t know how to answer. Of course, he may be overstepping a boundary by asking in the first place. He is heading back up towards the trees and almost misses the quiet voice.

“No. Sometimes the _berdache_ chooses a lover for the night from among the dancers. It is an honor for them both.” He dunks his head under the water and immediately throws it back, splashing a river down his bare back. Some paint still clings to his temples and streams of weak colors wind down his spine towards the dip above his pearly buttocks.

“You?” The inquiry bolts out of his mouth like a frightened colt before he can rein it in.

“Yes. Only twice. They asked me to sing the first time when I was fifteen, but I did not take a lover that first year. I was still learning the way.” Sherlock is coming out of the water now, clear rivulets running down his naked chest and legs. John holds out the blanket from this morning, having nothing else handy to dry off with. Sherlock takes it and wraps it about his shoulders, it reaches mid-thigh. He pulls it tight over his chest with his arms crossed underneath and regards John with intense scrutiny.

“What made this time different?” Sherlock asks in a low voice.

John doesn’t hesitate. “Me.”

Sherlock nods his head and moves to drape the ceremonial robes back over his head. They walk back to the little house where he changes quickly. They call the horses in from the paddock, tacking them up by the fence. John indicates the leather bag that Sherlock has added to his saddle.

“Anything you need from the house?” He asks as they lead their horses around to the front.

“No.” Sherlock answers while he steps into the stirrup and swings his leg around.

They ride out to the Black Eagle’s home and spend an hour talking with the older couple. They dine on unleavened bread with butter and venison jerky. Mrs. Mary Black Eagle even offers them coffee. It is all very warm and cordial, but there is also the grief of a separation lying ahead. John gets the distinct impression that Louis is sorry to see Sherlock leave but understands that it is time for the young man to move forward. He tells him as much, raising a grey eyebrow in John’s direction. John just smiles to himself; it’s all still so new that he’s still working it out.

There are more people going about their business as they ride out of the reservation. Some of them stop Sherlock and reach up to him, shoving things in his hands. He thanks each person warmly as he drops the little gifts into the leather bag lashed to the horn of his saddle. Just as they are exiting the reservation lands, a middle-aged woman rushes over and grabs at the reins of John’s mount. She reaches up towards his hand. He leans down towards her as she clutches it in both of hers; her hands are strong little claws. Not wanting to hurt her, he pulls away slightly but she hangs on. It’s an odd little struggle that ends when Sherlock states pointedly: “Speak with her.”

John stops struggling and waits patiently. “His mother was my sister.” John’s eyes move to Sherlock and then back to the woman. He takes in her beautiful eyes that are slightly almond-shaped, the thick black braid hanging down her back and her sun kissed skin. He nods. “Thank you, John Watson for caring for him.” She speaks with a strange accent, as if English is a bad taste in her mouth. Her eyes are almost pleading, she actually seems frightened. He is unsure of what to do to comfort her. He pats her hands with his loose one. The buckskin snorts and flicks his ears backward; his tail swishes up over John’s thigh. Sherlock makes a little click noise and the horse settles again.

She chooses her words carefully. “John Watson, you ride a dangerous trail. You know well the hatred that lives in some hearts. He was right about his mother.” She is backing away now. “Keep him safe and he will bring her justice.” The woman is gone as fast as she appeared. John turns his hand over to see the little fetish she has given him. It is earth-colored soapstone carved in the image of a wolf.

He runs a thumb over it; the surface is smooth. He holds it up for Sherlock to see. Sherlock says nothing. He doesn’t seem particularly fussed about it one way or the other, so John drops it into his pocket. He leans down a little further and readjusts the beaded-handle knife in his boot. Louis had presented it to him after breakfast, telling him that warriors could be so without weapons, but only an ignorant warrior faced danger without a weapon. The old man had then laughed straight from his belly, the mirth wrinkling his face. John wishes he understood everything Louis told him; the man sure is worth contemplation.

They wind down the trail going past where they spent their first night together. Since they are side-by-side it’s easy for them to catch one another’s eyes and smile. They ride quietly, the only sounds the wilds around them and the occasional _ding_ of a rock striking a horseshoe.

It is when they are halfway between the town and the reservation that they are set upon by a group of men lead by Wallace. They are dragged from their horses and beaten with sticks and fists. The meaning of the words spoken by Sherlock’s aunt becomes clear as John is fighting with a cowboy about his own age: _You know well the hatred that lives in some hearts_. She knew. She damn well knew and tried to warn them. John lands a clear right hook to the man’s jaw. He hits the ground with a thud and John tries in vain to see where Sherlock is. He can’t see anything before a third man has him around the middle, trying to take him to the ground.

John drops to his knees at the same time he rolls, pinning the man under him. He grabs for his knife as the man bucks him off. John holds the knife straight out from his body as the man rushes in to him. His eyes are wild and tiny bubbles of spit have collected in the corner of his mouth. “You fuckin’ Injun lover!” It’s not the first time John’s been called this and it’s really starting to piss him off.

“What the hell is it to you?” John asks sarcastically as he parries with the blade. The man growls and makes a swipe for the knife. Instead, he meets the edge and a long scarlet wound opens up on his forearm from wrist to elbow. This only seems to make him angrier and his arms flail, sending blood droplets everywhere. It’s either him or John. Somehow, in the back of John’s mind, he hears the powerful syncopations of drums being played with flat palms. He spreads his legs, squares his shoulders and makes a little ‘come on’ gesture with the hand not holding the knife. The man bellows like a bull and lowers his head, running towards John’s middle in an attempt to knock him to the ground.

Without thinking, John swipes the blade across the man’s neck. This time when he drops to the ground there is no sound except for the last gurgle from his ruined throat. John feels strangely focused; his heart should be racing but it is not. The second thought that races through his buzzing mind after the body falls is that he has to find Sherlock. Now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and chapter 13 were originally going to be one in the same, I was just so tired last night I couldn't finish this one. Thank you all so much!


	15. Wolves

Jessie sits alone at the dining table with her brother’s letter in her hands. A flickering candle sputters beside her. It is a short note that simply states that he found Sherlock, they are alright and they are going to the reservation where Sherlock grew up for a couple of days or so: nothing more. On one hand, Jessie is more than ecstatic to hear from her brother; on the other hand, her worry has increased. She’s got the feeling that something is _wrong_ and she’s not sure what to do about it. She pulls the candle a little closer and re-reads the letter for the third time.

Mike comes in through the back of the house shedding his heavy coat, his boots clomping across the wooden floors. His face is flushed pink from the cold and there is a line of sweat on his forehead from his hat band. Jessie thinks he looks wonderful. She must remember to thank her brother when she finally sees him again. She knows that they can all be happy here, an odd little family, but a family nonetheless. Mike kisses her on the top of the head and settles into the chair next to hers to pull off his boots. Her eyes go back to the letter while she waits until the hard _thunk_ of the second one hits the hardwood before she speaks.

“Got a letter from John today.” She holds the paper out towards him. He takes it in his strong fingers, reads it through then hands it back to her.

“That’s good, Jessie. See? He’s going to be fine.” He pats her on the back of the hand, starting to rise to go into the kitchen.

“Mike, I wish you and daddy would go check. I just keep getting the feeling that something isn’t…it’s just an odd thing….” She closes her mouth with a snap, her eyes flashing in her fiancé’s direction. Mike tightens the grip on her hand and waits it out.

“I keep having these strange dreams, something about wolves and bears…and it makes no sense.” Tears are welling up, Mike gently touches her cheek. “I know this is stupid, but I’ve got the feeling that something is _wrong_. They are in danger somehow.” She meets Mike’s eyes with her own glassy gaze. He studies her for a moment.

“Jack? Jack would you mind coming in here for a second?” Mike calls out towards the sitting room. Jessie admires the way the candlelight dances on his face. He is a quiet man and once he makes a decision, he generally does not waver.

Jessie is quiet. She listens to the heavy, measured sound of her father’s steps as he crosses into the room.

“Tell him.” Mike implores of her.

Jessie quickly explains. Jack listens, both of his big hands resting on the back of one of the dining chairs. Being of frontier stock, Jack never doubts a woman’s intuition, though he is wise enough to know that there are logical ways to check into it.

“In the morning, I will ride down to Sheriff Lestrade. I will take the letter with me and see if he knows who the sheriff of the town is that’s listed in the postmark there. Maybe we can get word a little quicker. Will that help?”

“Yes, daddy. Thank you.” She wraps him in a quick good-night hug.

~0o0~

“Good morning, Jack!” The sheriff calls out as Jack dismounts. The big man rocks back on his heels as he strides up the steps. Greg has cleared the snow enough to make a safe walk way around the jailhouse. He turns and Jack follows him into the warm office.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks, Sheriff.” Jack settles into one of the chairs in front of the Lestrade’s desk, thinking that as much as Lestrade is his friend, he really can’t abide by the poison that the man calls “coffee.” By chance, the chair is the same one John sat in not too long ago partaking of said beverage. He fumbles in the pocket of his coat for a moment and holds up the envelope that John’s letter came in. Greg takes it, reads the address and cocks an eyebrow at Jack, uncomprehending.

“Jessie’s worried about her brother.” Jack states simply.

“Ah. You’d like me to check into this address and see if its all on the up and up?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Greg. I’d like to set her mind at ease.” Jack shifts in the uncomfortable chair.

“I can do that.” He says as he takes out his pocket watch. He checks the time and allows that the telegraph office is open. He tells Jack the same. Jack stands and shakes Greg’s hand again before moving back to his horse.

“I’ll be around town for a little bit today, if you get an answer, will you let me know?”

“Absolutely, old friend.”

~0o0~

John is almost frantic. He spins around, almost tripping over the body at his feet, a hunter searching for his quarry. There is a strange lack of any noise; even the birds have gone quiet. He moves his head from side to side, straining his ears for any sound that will tell him in which direction Wallace dragged Sherlock. He is running on pure rage now. The rage is effectively masking his fear, but it’s enough for now.

He shakes his head, moving away from the body. He’s disgusted about all of it. The fact that he had to take someone’s life over something so asinine just makes him angry all over. The sun is still bright. John meanders around the trail with his eyes on the ground. Just off the side of the trail he notices some broken grass stems. As a cloud moves overhead he thinks to himself that this may not be much, but at least it’s a start.

John follows the trail of broken grass stems until he gets to a rocky outcrop. It has taken him almost an hour. In that time, the sky has gone grey and a light rain is falling on his back. He has tried desperately to ignore the occasional spot of blood on the grass. He approaches the rocky outcrop cautiously and peers over the side of it. The sight before him makes his blood run cold. Everything else around him is completely forgotten. John runs around the outcrop like a madman, finally pulling himself over then under to where Sherlock is lying spread out on his back. His eyes, the skin around one of which is turning a sickly shade of purple are puffy and barely open. His tongue is caught between his teeth and it juts out between his lips slightly. He kneels down beside his lover, placing one hand on the young man’s chest. His fingers start to tremble slightly as the feeling of the heartbeat under his palm. John leans down, his hair almost touching Sherlock’s lips, and feels the breath coming shallowly, but there. John attempts to make eye contact but Sherlock is so far gone at this point John isn’t sure if he is even registering his presence. He turns back to checking for injuries.

Sherlock’s shirt has miraculously survived the assault, but John needs to open it anyway. Sherlock’s poncho seems to have disappeared. He finds some well of calm in the back of his mind and manages to control his shaking fingers long enough to open Sherlock’s shirt. He runs his palms up his ribcage, satisfied that nothing is broken. He tries in vain to ignore the solid red wall of rage that threatens to descend over his mind at the innumerable bruises across Sherlock’s torso. He swiftly does the buttons back up. John rips his own poncho off as fast as humanly possible and spreads it across Sherlock’s chest. He then turns to gently probing the young man’s skull. There is a faint trail of dried blood on Sherlock’s temple. John finds the short but deep gash and brushes it lightly with his fingertips. Sherlock hisses through his teeth, the first sign of awareness since John found him.

John doesn’t waiver in his exploration of Sherlock’s head, even when the rain starts to beat down on them. He deems it safe to move Sherlock out of the rain and pulls him with as much care as possible underneath the outcrop. He sits down on the relatively dry ground and pulls Sherlock into a semi-sitting position, wrapping his arms around the thin man, whispering soothing words into his ear. As he sits through the night, John ignores the trickle of water down his collar and tries not to consider their lost supplies. His biggest hope, though, is that Sherlock’s brother doesn’t come back to finish the job; but if he does, John will defend Sherlock to the death. That thought clears his mind and he sits back against the rock and falls into a sort-of half slumber.

~0o0~

Sometime during the night, John is awakened by the mournful melodies of a howling wolf pack. The sound is uncomfortably close. He scoots over and pushes a sleeping Sherlock over onto his side, tucking the poncho as tightly around the lean body as he is able. He stands up on part of the ledge and looks over. The rain has stopped. Across the ground on the other side of the outcrop are several wolves. In the gray semi-light just before the dawn they all look like shadows, except for one. She is almost ethereal in John’s exhausted brain. He knows it isn’t possible, but can’t help but think of her that way. He’s never been this close to a wolf before and he takes something from watching her sides move in and out as she breathes: living not dead.

The white female breaks away from the pack and stands at the bottom of the outcrop, looking up at him. John gets the impression that the animal is sizing him up. Her eyes are pale and gleam with intelligence. Even in muddled shades of the earliest morning, John can see every hair on her hide is snow white. He considers that nothing would be so soothing than to run his hand into her coat. He wants to lean up against her side and sleep like a pup. Scenes from the night before play through his mind again, unbidden. He is captivated in his mind, though his body does not move.

After a time, Sherlock mumbles behind the rocks and the wolf cocks her head. She makes a low growling noise in her throat and trots away from them. It leaves John with the strangest feeling he’s ever had…like everything is going to work out for them. Somehow.

He carefully drops back to his feet to find Sherlock sitting up, his shoulders hunched to keep his head from hitting the outcrop above him. As John comes back into sight, Sherlock raises his head, his face under the bruises is flushed with fever; though he seems to be aware.

“John?” Sherlock grinds out between his teeth. John gets closer and kneels beside him. Sherlock seems to take in that John is relatively unharmed and his eyes slip shut. His body sways where he sits, finally falling against John with a sigh. John rouses him enough to scoot them back under the outcrop. It’s not much protection, but it will keep most of the sun off of them once it ascends its zenith.

John rests his palm against Sherlock’s forehead and wonders how long they can survive.


	16. Bears

The next morning John finds that there is not much change in Sherlock’s condition. He needs water. With all the rain last night, John should be able to find some near them somewhere. If nothing else, he can backtrack to the little valley. He contemplates the problem, finally scooting from underneath Sherlock and pulling the knife out of his boot. He carefully cuts a strip from the bottom of the poncho and stuffs it into his pocket. It certainly isn’t much, but it’s all he’s got at the moment. Neither of them thought to wear a hat. He makes a silent vow to himself that if they get out of this, he’s never going to be without one again.

“Sherlock.” John goes to his knees beside the pale man, one hand on either side of his bruised face. Sherlock opens his impossibly green eyes. John feels the pain behind them and strokes his face as gently as possible.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s words are torn harshly from his wounded throat. John takes note of the purpling finger marks on his neck and once again fights back the anguish of seeing his lover hurt in such a manner.

“I am going to try and find you some water.” Sherlock shakes his head. John grips his chin in his fingers, forcing the younger man to look at him.

“Yes, Sherlock. I am not going to let you die out here if I can help it.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t say anything else. “I am going to try and find you some water. Even if you start feeling less dizzy, stay here. I’m serious. Stay here. I haven’t seen your brother, so please, don’t give him any reason to come back and finish what he started.”

Sherlock glares at him. John can _feel_ the words: _he’s not my brother_.

Finally, Sherlock nods. “What about the others?” He rasps out.

“I took care of them, Sherlock. The only one still out there is Wallace.” John says as he stands up, he deeply does not want to talk about this right now.

Sherlock hisses through his teeth. His gaze flickers to the poncho on his chest as if he’s seeing it for the very first time and then skates up John’s body. John leans down and kisses him on his forehead. Sherlock reaches out with a weak hand and his fingers flutter across John’s nape.

“Stay here, Sherlock. Stay low. I will be back as soon as I can. Stay here.” John repeats climbs out of the makeshift shelter.

~0o0~

After a ten minute walk, John discovers a stream not far from where he left Sherlock. He feels like a doe leaving its spotted fawn protected in the long grass while she grazes, constantly on guard for a predator. He dips the strip of material into the water and sponges up what he can. He hurries back to Sherlock and squeezes some of the water out into his mouth. Sherlock takes it willingly with a sigh. Within minutes, John’s out on his second trip to collect some water when there is a crashing sound across the way.

He looks out across the stream to see a grizzly with its back turned toward him. The big animal is lumbering about, crashing through the dry winter underbrush making soft whuffling sounds. John stands very still, attempting to make no sound to attract the huge predator. Because he is focused on the animal in front of him, thinking what would happen if he went and got hurt and where it would leave Sherlock; and so he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

John is grabbed around the throat from behind and shoved face first into the stream. He is vaguely aware of the sound of a bear growling its irritation at having been interrupted. He tries to raise his head up out of the water but that action is made more difficult due to the massive weight on his back holding him down. He sputters as he takes in a mouthful of water. He swallows the water and takes stock of the situation; forcing himself to go still and just _wait_.

The weight on top of him shifts and he uses that tiny window of time to turn over, pointedly ignoring the scrape of the pebbles on the bottom of the stream against his head. The massive frame of Wallace is now sitting on his abdomen; fists raised and headed in his direction. Fast. John claws at the big man’s body trying for a purchase. The only thing he manages to do is pull off the leather strap of Wallace’s water bag. John knows he’s being hit, hard, but for some reason, his brain isn’t registering the pain. Instead, it’s calculating how fast he can draw his knife.

Wallace is cursing and shouting in two languages. John only comprehends about every other word. From what he can make out, it sounds as if Wallace is going off on him because he heard Sherlock remark on his own certainty that his half-brother had murdered their mother. The red anger begins to boil as a meaty fist gets in a good one across his jaw. John roars and throws himself upward out of the water, dislodging the bigger man. Everything that happens next, John will remember in stop-motion for the rest of his life.

Wallace is so intent on extracting his own pound of flesh against his half-brother that he seems oblivious to anything else. John is only aware that Wallace truly believes he’s killed Sherlock, so at least he won’t go looking for him if he succeeds in killing John. John has no doubt that is the big man’s full intention.

Wallace is standing up out of the stream, water dripping down the sides of his head. He wipes across his face with both hands and reaches out with them in an attempt to grab John’s neck. John backpedals and his boot heel catches on a rock. He goes down hard on his rear end just as the irritated grizzly pounces on Wallace’s back. He sees the bear’s huge black claws rip through tender flesh; its muzzle full of teeth against Wallace’s neck and its weight forcing the big man back into the water. Wallace thrashes against his attacker and John can’t help but feel slightly vindicated.

The big man cries out in surprise and pain. John throws himself backward onto his back and closes his eyes: the sounds of a man getting mauled by a bear are bad enough that he has no desire to see it happen. After a time the horrendous noises stop. John remains where he is, only sitting up on his arms when he no longer hears the bear.

Wallace is no more than a pile of meat facedown bleeding out in the stream. The water here is no longer fit for drinking. John clears his head and takes note of the water bag on the sandy dirt not far from him. He collects it in his fingers and takes it back to Sherlock, only slightly stumbling as he walks. He touches that back of his skull tenderly, thankful there are only a few small contusions and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any brain damage. At least the cold water helped keep the swelling down.

Sherlock eyes the bag warily but does not ask any questions. John tells him the story and watches Sherlock’s reactions closely. Sherlock only seems to be fractionally better than he was this morning.

“You need to eat.” John states, once he’s finished.

“And you need to drink.” Sherlock holds out the water bag with the remainder of the water. His voice is still scratchy, though the water has seemed to smooth out his sore vocal chords for the moment. Sherlock just stares at John with his arm outstretched.

“No, Sherlock. I can get out of here under my own steam. I’ll go further upstream and the water should be alright. Drink it.”

Sherlock downs the rest of the water and gives John the bag. Once again, John moves to place a kiss on his forehead but Sherlock grabs his neck and twists his face up to meet John’s lips. John kisses him back, trying for reassurance. When the kiss finally ends, Sherlock’s hand remains resting on the back of John’s neck; it feels to John like he’s being touched by fire. The feeling reminds him that the situation could take a turn for the worse at any second. He starts to climb out and then once again faces Sherlock, three words on the tip of his tongue. He reins them in, however, when he takes in the weariness in his lover’s face. He feels that he has no right to say them until he can prove himself worthy, and that means keeping them both alive.

~0o0~

Sheriff Moore is gazing out at the street and finishing his third slice of Ms. Eileen’s chocolate cake as one of his horses gallops past the window. His mouth hangs open mid-bite and Eileen gives him a playful tap on the shoulder. His mouth closes and he chews calmly, watching the buckskin that John Watson had been riding as the gelding flies towards home like its head’s on fire and its ass is catching. He throws the cloth napkin down next to the plate as he pushes his chair in to the little table.

“What do you think has happened, Ray?” Eileen asks him in a quiet voice. She is still looking out the window; waiting for the sound of hooves thudding against the hard ground to announce the arrival of the second horse, the one Sherlock was riding. A little chill crawls down her back at the possibility that something has happened to him.

Sheriff Moore places a hand on her shoulder and leans in close pressing his lips to her ear. She giggles a little at the feeling of his mustache and her cheeks redden. He spreads his big palm across her lower back while nuzzling at her neck.

“Aww, you!” She playfully swings at him with the red-and-white checked towel in her hands. He gives her a little wink before turning toward the door, causing the little bell above it to tingle merrily. He nods his head into his hat and steps out into the street towards home. Another customer comes in and Ms Eileen greets the woman cheerily, concealing the anguish she is really feeling.

~0o0~

Sheriff Moore stands watching the buckskin gelding drink out of his bucket like the horse hasn’t seen water in twenty years, the muscles of his cresty neck working as the liquid goes down easy. He walked the horse for half an hour before allowing him to drink. There’s no point in allowing a horse to colic when it can be so easily avoided, he thinks, throwing a flake of hay into the stall. He claps his hands together, knocking off a little bit of dust and leans against the stall door. In his mind, this horse’s name is Billy.

“Well, Billy, what’s happened to yer partner, old boy?” Billy pricks his ears up and Ray reaches out to scratch between them. The horse snorts, tosses his head and goes back to his dinner. The sheriff is still in his quiet mood when there’s a knock on the partially closed stable door.

“Sheriff? You around?” A boy of about fourteen sticks his head in through the open space. He’s got a yellow piece of paper in his hand. _Telegram_ , thinks Ray.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He pats Billy one the shoulder one more time and holds out his hand for the telegram. The boy just waits, too polite to hold out his hand for the nickel it cost to have the telegram delivered. Sheriff Moore is distracted however, and the boy turns away from him dejectedly. It’s his first day on the job. Ray’s eyes scan the three lines written across the paper and he drops it to the ground, rushing past the boy and towards the house. Suddenly he spins around on his boot heel and fishes the coin out of his pocket. He pats the boy on the back as he hands him the coin. The boy staggers a little on his way back to the office.

The yellow paper floats softly to stable floor as a slight wind whistles through the door and picks it up. It glides for a moment before landing against Billy’s door where it can be read by anyone who would look down and see it:

  
_Need information on the whereabouts of one John Watson and Sherlock Holmes._ Stop. _Watson family fears trouble._ Stop. _Letter from John confirms they were in the vicinity. Please advise_. Stop. _Signed: Sheriff G. Lestrade_  



	17. Hang On

Sheriff Moore’s reply telegram gets to Sheriff Lestrade right after lunch on the same day. He tacks up two of his horses and is out at the Watson place before sundown. He is welcomed in by Jessie, whose eyes seem to open so wide that they will pop as the Sheriff tells them all what is happening. They sit around the dining table, each with a glass of whiskey at their elbows. No one is drinking except for Jack.  

“The town where John mailed his letter has a Sheriff named Moore.” Greg explains. He glances around the table at the three pairs of eyes belonging to the family waiting on pins and needles to hear news of their loved one. Ones, he mentally corrects himself. “The Sheriff lent your brother and Sherlock a pair of horses to ride up to the reservation. They were supposed to have stayed one night there.” All three heads nod in his direction, keeping their silence. “Sometime yesterday, one of the Sheriff’s horses showed back up in town, riderless. He has reason to believe that they may have been ambushed on the road back into town, as there’s been occasional problems in that area with a small gang of thieves and cutthroats allegedly led by some big half-Indian goes by the name The Bear.” Greg throws the burning whiskey down his throat, his glass hitting the table with a thud.

Jessie makes a startled little noise. Mike reaches over and takes her hand. “It doesn’t mean anything, Jessie, it's just coincidence.”

Across the table, Jack sighs in weariness. He thanks his friend and tells him he can stay in the house tonight. He takes one look at Jessie’s face and frowns.

“Gimme just a minute, Greg, won’t take me long to get you a pallet together.” He moves swiftly from the room.

Jessie Watson is many things. She is a girl, a frontier girl, and her father’s daughter. She learned that sometimes women could sense things that were either happening or going to happen at her mama’s knees.

Greg’s eyes flash between Jessie and Mike. He doesn’t have to be a medicine-show level con to see that Mike seriously just stepped in it. He stepped in it big. Greg attempts to catch Mike’s attention over the table, but by the time Jessie stands up, it’s just too late.

“How dare you?” Her words are thrown at her fiancé as leans into his face. “I was RIGHT.” She storms away from them, angry, hurt and scared for her brother. Mike knows that, he knows it and should have kept his mouth shut.

“Sheriff, sometimes I think she forgets that it’s my friends missing out there, too.” Mike says quietly to the table.

Jack has been watching from the hallway. He briefly touches Mike’s shoulder.

“She’ll get over it, son. Give her time. Better yet, bring her brother and his friend home safe.” Jack speaks quietly, but his deep voice carries through the rafters of the house. He knows full well his daughter heard every word.

“I will.” Mike states firmly. “When do we leave?” He asks Lestrade.

“First light.” Lestrade nods his thanks to Jack as he pours another shot into Greg’s glass. All three men sit in silence for a few moments.

“Sheriff, the night you brought my cousin here, where had he been?” Mike asks, still downcast.

“I caught him by the boot heels trying to break into the general store.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to spend the night at the jailhouse, but what made you believe him when you said I was here?” He’s wanted an answer to this question since that night.

“Mike, I tell you, I don’t know. When that boy looked up at me with _those_ eyes…” he paused and sipped at the brown amber liquid in his glass. “When I looked into those eyes, I was not looking into the gaze of a hardened thief; I was looking at a boy just trying to get something to eat. It was pretty obvious he had been on the run for a while and when he said his cousin was at Jack’s place, I had to bring him out here to at least try.” Greg settles back in his chair and holds his glass up, watching the candlelight from the table dance against the whiskey.

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Mike states, finally raising his eyes towards the older man.

“You’re welcome, son. What anyone would have done.”

“No, Sheriff, on that you are wrong. That’s why he was on the run in the first place.”

It was after midnight before Mike stopped talking as he laid out the story of his cousins and the terrible tragedy that befell their mother. He knew some of the story and had a pretty good guess at the rest of it. Greg and Jack listened intently, not once stopping to consider Sherlock anything but a man that had been through hell and back.

~0o0~

Mike only sleeps in small snatches the rest of the night. After telling Sherlock’s story he is more aware of what his friends could be facing than ever before. He knocks on Jessie’s bedroom door before they leave, trying to apologize for doubting her. She just grumbles and tells him to go away. He squares his shoulders and spreads his feet before banging on the door even harder.

“Fine, Jessica. I’m going to go find them. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I’ve only got one thing to say.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I love you. I will be back to marry you, with my friends in tow. See you soon.” He stomps down the hallway, greeting the Sheriff with a grunt. The two men leave, the only sounds in their wake is the thrumming of their boots across the old wooden porch and down the stairs.

Jessie opens her door a little, sticking her tear-streaked face out for a moment. Jack comes out of his room and pushes the door open with one hand and embraces his daughter with the other. She leans up against his chest and cries, her tears staining the front of his shirt.

~0o0~

John is doing his best to keep Sherlock comfortable and at least not dehydrated. He’s managed to catch and skin a squirrel, but the meat is pretty terrible without any way to cook it. He cuts it up into tiny pale squares and manages to get Sherlock to eat a few of them. He tries some himself and finally gives up, taking the remainder all the way to the stream to dispose of. He walks past Wallace’s body, following the stream in the opposite direction to fill the water bag with clean water. He eyes the little silver fish swimming by but decides that raw fish probably won’t taste any better than the squirrel. At least now with some sustenance in their bellies, maybe they will both sleep. He does manage to find a little half-dead gooseberry bush in the foliage and tosses a handful of the sour little berries into his mouth as he walks back to their makeshift camp. He drops the rest of them into his pocket, hoping that maybe Sherlock will try them.

John takes the berries out of his pocket and lays them on the ground where they won’t be crushed. He then curls up behind Sherlock, his thighs resting against the younger man’s rear end, his arms around Sherlock’s chest. He pulls the poncho over them, leaving the majority of it over Sherlock’s body.  

Sherlock’s fever went down a little only to flare back up again. He’s been in and out of strange dreams since John attempted to feed him. They had tried to leave that afternoon, but Sherlock’s fever made the attempt fruitless as he stumbled and almost fell two or three times getting out of the shelter of the outcrop. Without any supplies nor extensive knowledge of the local plant life, there isn’t too much more John can do to make Sherlock comfortable. He buries his nose in the tiny bit of hair present on Sherlock’s very warm nape and closes his eyes; Sherlock’s sweat stings his skin but he doesn’t care. If this is the way it ends, at least they can be together.

He remembers the argument from before when he decided that Sherlock was not fit for travelling. Even in a fever haze Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. He tried to push John away, to make him head down the road alone. John refused, considering that he was Sherlock’s only chance. It took them half a day on horseback to reach this point; he couldn’t even fathom trying to walk it in his present condition. Not to mention that Sherlock has had enough people turn their back on him. He was not going to be the next in line.

John curls around the thin body and lays his ear against Sherlock’s back. The slight wheeze that he hears when the other man breathes is enough for concern. He’s got to find a way to get him off of the ground, but he’s grown weak from the lack of food, strain of fighting off three men in the space of twelve hours and his own injuries. Sherlock shivers a little and John attempts to curl impossibly closer. He’s starting to wind down, hope seeping out of him and into the ground. All he can do is hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers following this fic--I thank you, thank you, thank you!


	18. Keep Moving

As the train crawls to a stop, the lowing whine of its whistle announcing its intentions, Mike Stamford thrusts his ticket at the conduct and all but jumps the last two steps out of the passenger car. He tilts his head down so that the pouring rain will run down his hat brim, at the same time adjusting the bridle hanging on his shoulder. It’s been a long six hours and he is ready to get out and stretch his legs. There is a short line in front of the livestock car so he’s forced to stand still once more. After what seems like another six hours, his horse is led down the plank, his metal shoes playing a melody against the wood. Mike drapes the lead rope over his arm and swiftly puts the bridle on over the gelding’s halter. He leaves the lead rope attached to the halter and ties it in a quick-release knot to the horn of saddle.

Mike leads his mount away from the train and the throng of people with the reins in his hand. The horse snorts a little, shaking his head, maybe glad to be out of the tight quarters and back on solid ground. Mike knows it’s better to let the gelding walk a bit before riding, in case the horse’s legs have gone stiff from adjusting his weight against the rocking movement of the train. He is proud to see that the little bay Mustang is calm and so gives him a pat on the shoulder. The rain is starting to let up as the follow a throng of people away from the station. A couple of wagons rumble by, there are a few people on foot, but most are mounting up for the ride towards town. Mike stops his horse, readjusts his saddle and quickly does up the three-quarter rig cinch. He places one palm under the cinch, checking that it’s tight but not so much so that the poor animal can’t breathe. He nods to himself as he climbs up into the saddle.

Mike is just outside the town limits when the rain finally stops. A slight mist of steam comes off of the horse’s neck as they walk. He reaches into his pocket with the hand not controlling the reins and makes note of the general store where he is supposed to meet with Sheriff Moore. The original plan was for Sheriff Lestrade to go out with him, but Greg got sidetracked by a serious bar brawl in town just before they were to board the train. Mike thinks fondly of the man who is probably partially responsible for saving his cousin’s life, at least once. He’s especially impressed by Greg’s “live and let live” attitude. A tall man on an equally tall horse trots by him and Mike gives him a nod, touching the rim of his hat. The man turns his way and returns the gesture, giving him a welcoming smile, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.

Mike finds the general store. He dismounts and ties the lead rope to the hitching post out front. There’s already two other horses there: a buckskin and a black pinto. He makes note of a pair of wooden torches lashed to the saddle of the pinto.

Mike takes his hat off, deftly flicking it to remove any water still remaining on the top. Little droplets fly into the air, pale yellow rays of light turning them into tiny prisms. The air is clean. He opens the door to the shop and the smell of sweets is the first thing to hit him. It’s a neat, homey place and he looks around a minute to get his bearings, his eyes scanning the shelves of sale goods as well as the sweets counter. The only patron seems to be a man is sitting at a little table just in front of the window, his hat held in strong fingers. The copper star on his chest gleams against the dying sunlight streaming through the window. Mike approaches him with only a little apprehension.

“Sheriff Moore?” Mike holds out a hand.

“Mike Stamford?” Ray shakes the younger man’s hand. He’s got a solid grip.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you are here as part of rescue effort? Time is of the essence and tracking is going to be difficult once it gets dark, but we have to try. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir, ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good man.” Ray pounds his big hand against Mike’s shoulder. He calls out to let Eileen know he’s leaving the shop and leads Mike out the door.

~0o0~

“Sherlock.” John is growing more terrified each time Sherlock doesn’t answer. He had been lying over the prone body in an attempt to keep the heavy rain off of him when he realized that Sherlock’s breathing pattern had changed into this shallow, gasping sound. John shakes Sherlock’s shoulder a little harder this time; when the sick man doesn’t respond, he flips him over onto his back and peels back his eyelids. His pupils are responsive, but his mouth is open as if he’s begging for air. He pulls back the poncho and unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt. John makes a fist and lays the flat part of his fingers against Sherlock’s breastbone, rubbing none too gently. With a last startled intake of air, Sherlock sits up, his eyes flying open in fear.

“You are alright, Sherlock.” John pulls him close and fastens the buttons back up. Sherlock starts to fall back again but John pushes off the ground and stands them both up at the same time. “No, stay awake.” Sherlock’s weary green gaze almost causes John to cry out in the misery that Sherlock must be feeling but cannot vocalize as John pats a little roughly at the side of his face.

“I’ve got to get you out of here.” John moves them towards the outcrop and pushes Sherlock up to the flat rock. He climbs up behind him, and then shimmies down to the ground. He manhandles the semi-conscious man into position where he can lean on John but support some of his own weight on his own feet. John cannot take the seclusion much longer. Deep down inside, he knows he’s going to lose Sherlock if he doesn’t do _something_. He partially supports, partially forces Sherlock to move forward. It would be an incredibly difficult maneuver to perform even if John was in perfect health. At this point, the risk of being forced to carry a full-grown man back to town heavily outweighs the risk of Sherlock’s lungs filling completely with fluid. He refuses to let his partner die a slow death of drowning in his own body.

 John stops them for a moment to catch his breath. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent in his native language. John bows his head and closes his eyes, once again remembering scenes from the dance. He thinks about everything that Louis was saying to his people without John understanding a single word of it. For some reason, John draws on the memory and finds a reserve of strength within himself. He opens his eyes, pulling Sherlock tighter to his side and forces one foot in front of the other until they are back on the trail.

After a time, Sherlock seems to be coming around again. John thinks that perhaps the movement is good for him. Within the hour, he is taking almost his own weight on his feet and his breathing has improved slightly. Mostly he walks with his down and his arm still around John’s waist; occasionally though he looks to John and each time it gives John a little more hope. He pushes them a little harder.

When the rain finally stops falling, John is surprised that it’s almost dusk. The wilds around them are growing quiet as if everything is ready to bed down for the night. They keep pushing through; John wondering if he should feel guilty for forcing Sherlock to move through the pain; he quickly banishes the thought, instead considering that he’ll feel guilty once they get out of this alive.

Darkness closes softly around them. They don’t speak. The only sounds are Sherlock’s ragged breathing and occasional grunt of pain as the injuries on his body are jarred by the movement. John is faring slightly better; he’s actually starting to fear he’s not going to last much longer. He is unaware that they are now only a few miles from town when Sherlock stumbles, pulling them both to the ground. John reaches out for him and finds his lover’s hand just before the softness of the night wraps her arms around them, lulling them into a painless ignorance as they pillow their heads on her soft belly like babies curling up to mother.  


	19. Rescue

Ray and Mike are standing in their stirrups, one hand on the reins and the other wrapped around a flaming torch. They hold the torches out in front of themselves, just off of their horses’ necks. The light thrown from the flame only lights the road a few feet ahead of them at a time, so they ride in tandem in order to see farther. It is fully dark when they come upon the two men they have been searching for, both of them out cold in the center of the trail, their bodies bowed into each other so that it is difficult to tell where one body begins and the other ends. Mike and Ray dismount immediately, dropping to their knees beside the two men.

Mike shakes John awake. John turns his face up toward him and has the presence of mind to actually crack a smile. Mike clutches at his friend’s shoulders and hugs him tightly.

“Mike?” John questions, his voice slurring a little from being under so hard. He blinks his eyes and hugs him back. Mike pulls back to look John over. “I’m good enough for now, please, help me up.” Mike offers his forearm and helps John to his feet. Next to them, Sheriff Moore is doing the same for an almost-incoherent Sherlock.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” Ray is greeted with only one bewildered green eye staring into his face. Sherlock’s other eye has finally gone puffy enough to keep the lid from opening, as he had hit the ground pretty hard when he stumbled. Sherlock nods his head weakly, though.

 “I’m going to put you in my saddle and I’m going to put a rope around your waist. Do you understand?” Ray is rewarded with another week nod. He sets to work immediately, unwrapping the rope from the saddle on the pinto.

“Mike, get John mounted up and help me get behind Sherlock.”

John wearily leans against his friend but manages to hoist himself into the saddle anyway. He gives Mike an affirmative little nod as he’s got to now use what remaining energy he has to hang on. Mike gives him a pat on the leg and moves to help the sheriff.

Sherlock is securely propped up. Mike clasps his hands together and Ray steps up into them as Mike swings him up behind his saddle. He helps the sheriff get his reins sorted. He takes both torches, putting one of them out in a puddle. He swings back onto his own horse and takes the lead back to town.

~0o0~

On the third day after they are rescued, John is perched on the side of a medium-sized soft feather bed in the room above Eileen’s shop. The linens are white and crisp and the room smells of baked goods. John’s hand is resting on the blanket over Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock is sitting up in the bed holding a cup of tea that Ms. Eileen has just brought to him. The bruise around his eye is turning green, the color almost matching the irises that are now clear from any fever. He gives an occasional cough and seems to be coming through his ordeal with flying colors. Ms. Eileen is fussing over both of them, straightening the pillows behind Sherlock and asking John for the third time if he’s still hungry. She finally decides to go and check on the cookies she has baking downstairs, leaving them alone. It’s the first time since Mike and Sheriff Moore found them passed out on the ground that they have both been awake at the same time.

Sherlock sips his tea slowly, wincing slightly as the warm liquid soothes his sore throat. “Thank you, John.”

“I couldn’t have done anything else.” John answers him, leaning in to brush his lips against Sherlock’s. He tastes like very sweet tea.

“You saved my life, John.” Sherlock studies him intently over his cup.

“Yes.” John waits.

“What you did…” Sherlock begins.

John cuts him off. “It’s over, Sherlock. I may still have to answer for killing those men.”

“No.” Sherlock states firmly, a bit of color rising in his cheeks.

“No?” John doesn’t understand.

Sherlock sips his tea again, this time the pain is not as sharp. He takes a larger drink this time, closing his eyes against the soothing warmth before he speaks again. “Sheriff Moore…” before he’s able to explain, however, there’s the sound of footsteps on the steps and the so-named man appears as if he had been summoned, Mike just behind him. Sherlock raises the cup to his lips again and makes a little gesture with his hand from Ray to John and back.

“John, it’s great to see you!” The sheriff pumps John’s hand with vigor.

Mike wanders into the room and leans up against the wall. “I just sent a telegram home, to let them know you two are going to make it.”

“Thank you, Mike.” John says graciously. Mike just smiles, looking at John but thinking about his fiancée.

Sherlock finishes his tea and sets the mug down on the bedside table. The sleeping clothes he is wearing are almost hanging off of him, something that Ms Eileen apparently noticed as she’s been trying to feed him everything in her pantry for the past couple of days. He clears his throat a little. “John, Sheriff Moore here,” he gives a little nod in the sheriff’s direction. “He wants you to know that he knows you acted in self-defense. You not only protected yourself but also you protected me.”

“Thank you, sir.” John offers his hand to the bigger man again, quite humbled. He really doesn’t know what to say.

“Thank _you_ , son.” As he speaks, the sheriff is fumbling around in his pocket. At last he works out the item he was seeking. He holds it out on the palm of his hand towards John, and the other man takes it gently.

John admires the copper star and when he looks up to the room at large there are tears in his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, dear readers. Once again let me stress how much I love and appreciate every one of you for reading my silly words.


	20. Spring 1870

In the center of town a stage has been erected. Over the past few weeks that stage has been the witness to two traveling medicine shows, a play and a string quartet invited all the way out from the big city. People had gathered to be amazed by miracle cures, to enjoy a bit of fantasy and to dance. Being that the majority of the people who lived in the town and surrounding areas were male, there were often pairs of men taking turns dancing with the local women. Sheriff Lestrade even had a couple of partners of the male persuasion before taking up with a lively woman named Rebecca St. James.

Today, the stage was decorated with bunches of wildflowers picked with loving hands by several of the women, including Rebecca St. James and her newest bosom buddy, Jessie Watson. An altar of sorts had been placed center stage and a crowd milled about. Some of the men were carrying out chairs to place on the stage while others were standing around talking about their cattle or hogs and the spring market.

Jack Watson appears on the stage, standing tall and proud is his black suit. His silvering hair has been trimmed, his mustache recently waxed and his bow tie straightened three times by his fidgety daughter. His boots have been shined within an inch of their lives and several of the single women of the town take notice of his broad shoulders as he walks across the stage. He comes out towards the front, walking down each step as if he is the king of Siam. He’s got plenty of things to be proud of today, a well-crafted stage made by his own hands and a beautiful daughter who waits in the doorway of the little church for him.

Jack steps into the dim room and holds his arm out to Jessie. Her dress is light blue and the heavy material flows to the ground around her satin slippers. She is radiant in her mother’s pearl necklace. Jack smiles down at her and brushes her rosy cheeks with his lips. He thinks for a moment of this wonderful day and misses the family not here to help celebrate it. Jack steps out into the soft golden rays of the morning sun with his beautiful daughter and his face glows.

“I love you daddy.” Jessie whispers to him as he walks her towards the stage. The bouquet of flowers that she carries shakes just a little as they approach. The small crowd of people part to allow them to walk to the stage. Jessie watches her hemline, nervous about stepping on it and falling. She’s never happy wearing a dress though for today she’ll tolerate it. When Jack stops her by laying his hand on her arm, she looks up into the beaming face of her groom. She almost forgets to take in his soft grey suit and blue bowtie because she can’t take her eyes off of his face.

Jack releases her arm, holding his hand out to Mike. Mike takes it in his own and Jack pulls him into a tight one-armed hug while speaking quietly to the other man. “Thank you for everything, Mike.” Mike is choked up and cannot find the words to reply so instead he smiles. He links arms with Jessie and they approach the preacher together.

The vowels are recited and the rings are exchanged. Mike pulls Jessie into a rather dramatic dip and kisses her for all he’s worth. Jack applauds with the crowd around them, giving a little smirk when some wolf whistles erupt from the townspeople when the kiss goes on a little long. When they finally part, Mike is a man on fire and Jessie’s face is the color of poppy flowers. Mike hugs her tightly and she turns her back on the crowd. Jack is amused when several of the ladies present rush towards the stage as Jessie tosses the bouquet into the air; one of them finally catching it and giving everyone else a little wave. She and several of the others run off towards the saloon. Jessie and Mike leave the stage hand in hand and begin to socialize with their guests. A little while later three musicians appear and start the music. People whirl around with partners or dance a little jig by themselves.

Jack breaks open a bottle of champagne with a flourish while the Sheriff pours the wine. He and Jack shake hands and clap each other on the shoulder. As the morning passes into afternoon, they stand back and watch the dancers. The band has taken a break and is just starting up again. There’s a little bit of commotion behind them when Jessie appears at Jack’s side, clutching his arm and laughing with tears running down her face. Jack follows her lead, the sheriff right on his heels. Mike catches sight of them from where he is chatting with a man about the differences between Hereford and Longhorn stock. He politely excuses himself and moves to catch up with his wife and father-in-law.

Two horses are galloping their way, their hooves striking a thunderous rhythm on the ground. The riders pull up quickly and for a moment there’s mass confusion as Jessie is pulled off of her feet and into the air. A happy voice cries out “Congratulations!” and she finds herself enveloped in her brother’s arms.

“You made it!” She squeals with delight. Of course, she’ll never admit to making that sound in her entire life.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world! Dad?” John holds out his hand towards his father, expecting a handshake. What he really gets is a massive bear hug and then a grunt of exclamation as the star on his chest pokes against his father’s suit. Jack holds him at arms’ length and gives him a smile. “So proud of you, son! It is so wonderful to see you!”

John is greeted by Mike. “You really are my brother now! Congratulations!” He gestures towards the other rider. Sherlock takes his cue and dismounts gracefully. He is dressed in native clothing, fine leather trousers and a linen shirt. Jack is stunned by how much healthier the young man looks. He is completely taken aback when Sherlock turns his intense gaze onto Jack’s face. Jack cannot possible be even more proud than he was a few moments ago, but seeing all of his family in one place on such a wonderful day just makes him want to bust out laughing and dance a little jig himself.

As a group they all move towards the dancers. John holds out a hand towards Sherlock and they join in the festivities.

~0o0~

John finishes bedding his horse down for the night and closes the stall door with a firm click. He brushes a fine sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and then dusts his hands off by clapping his palms together as he walks through the barn. Sherlock stands in the open doorway facing the sunset. He has removed his shirt in an effort to keep it somewhat clean while assisting John with the evening chores. His hair has grown longer over the past few months and soon he will be able to plait it. John reflects on how wonderful he's going to look on Raven's back riding across the hills and canyons of their home. Jack made sure to tell them that the stallion is to go home with them. He's a beautiful animal, something a leader of men would ride.

They have barely had a moment alone today. Though some people may accept them for what they are, there is no good sense in flaunting it to the whole town. After what they’d been through the past few months, they both have accepted the wisdom of small silences. When they danced at the reception, both of them taking turns with women and men, though there were several times they both wanted to slip away to be alone. John thinks about his sister and how she seemed so happy as she stepped up into the carriage to be whisked away to her honeymoon. They were both radiant. John could wish nothing less for his sister, he felt Mike was a good man before but now he loves him as much as if he were born his own brother. 

 John moves up behind his lover reverently. Sherlock moves towards him and John is once again struck by the beauty of that face lit up by the touch of the oranges, golds, and purples of the sunset. His hair as grown back glossy and silky; John can't stop himself from reaching up to touch. John pulls his lover into his arms as he leans against the doorframe, their bodies seeming to melt together as the shadows deepen. Sherlock is willing as willing in body and mind as John is. They spend a few moments exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues. John’s hand moves up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, moving him ever closer. The sun sets on the horizon; the horses in the barn behind them shuffle a little in their stalls. John runs his hand down Sherlock’s chest and gently threads them into the waist of his trousers. The leather is as soft against his fingers as Sherlock’s cock is hot and hard. John curves his fingers around the shaft, teasing. Sherlock inhales sharply and graps both of John's butt cheeks in his hands.

Sherlock pushes his pelvis into John’s and rolls his hips. John’s tongue works at Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock makes a hungry growl in his throat. They stop to take a breath and John grabs Sherlock’s hand, leading him out towards the field. They slowly slide to the ground as one being and are completely unaware of the time passing by. Only when they are lying together fully naked and stretched out on the ground do they notice that the sky is filled with stars. The new grass is cool against their post-coitally warm skin. Sherlock has his head on John’s chest and their fingers are locked against each other. John sighs with contentment. He can finally say those words, finally, he feels worthy.

Sherlock beats him to it.

“John, I love you.” John smiles into the sky as Sherlock turns over on his chest and pushes himself up on his arms. His eyes are like glittering green glass. John whispers “I love you, too.” They move together, their lips crashing and tears mixing on both faces. When Sherlock at last settles back against John’s chest and they succumb to sleep, both of them remember the sound of a howling wolf in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that is our story. Thank you all for enjoying this ride with me!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are appreciated and kudos are the milk in my tea in the mornings; and again, I apologize for my slow starts.
> 
> Please note: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between anyone living or dead is purely coincidental and not meant as an insult. Several places in this work are based on reality, but altered slightly, again no harm intended.


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